My mother spoke of Princess Diana the way other women speak of God. With hushed tones thick with reverence, she idolized the Princess of Wales like she was one of us. With novelty mugs emblazoned with Princess Diana’s signature hairdo and warm smile, fancy hats and worn-out shoes two times smaller than her actual size scattered around the house, Diana hovered over our daily lives.
The television volume was turned on too high, with my mother screaming back at the commentary as she sat back and drank sugary tea from her favourite novelty mug. She yelled back with spittle flying out of her lips, ‘No, it’s pronounced DI-ANAH, the emphasis is on the last part, you moron!’
She eased back into the sofa, happily watching the documentary series on the life of Princess Diana, her newest comfort TV show. When she yelled out DI-ANAH again, I almost jumped out of my skin. My mother’s obsession with a public figure was what many would call unhealthy, but this was the life she was stuck in.
I was named after the Princess of Wales with a single, obvious reason. Names were supposed to have a special meaning, but mine didn’t. My mother only admired having her own daughter who she could look after. I was meant to run around the house as a silly child in my underwear with a cheap, plastic crown on my black, wiry hair. She would have me sit on the sticky carpet in the living room as she styled my hair, with a small sized Marmalade sandwich in my tiny hand.
Being an only child was glorious. I thought I had everything I wanted and almost got away with anything. The image of my mother walking bare footed in the house with a sparkle of anticipation in her eyes as she rubbed the bump in her belly. She had wanted another daughter, a second Diana to make our family somewhat complete.
But all of that changed when my baby brother, Charles, was born. Charles had little, beady eyes just like my father. Their rich, dark skin shone brightly in the sun just like cocoa in hot water. Unlike the light shade of my skin just like my mother’s, Charles was the replica of my father. They were instant best friends, but I couldn’t stand him because his arrival to our family somehow ruined everything. I suspected he was named after the Prince of Wales because my mother couldn’t stand him too.
On one of my many harmless adventures with my mother away at God knows where doing God knows what, I discovered an old photo album hidden safely in the dresser in her bedroom. I hadn’t noticed how rare and special this was until I spotted that single photograph with an orange time stamp at the corner. This was before Princess Diana’s passing and it felt almost like walking into a fictional time machine.
With neatly braided hair and a care-free smile, my mother stood closely with a stranger; an unknown male. The thought of her being worthy and acceptable to someone other than my father was impossible to imagine.
My father who wouldn’t miss anything for the world for his late evenings after work slouched on the sofa with crumbs of fish and chips all over his chin, slowly faded with the noise. His silence grew deafening and when he eventually stopped talking, or even visiting the house to bond with us, we welcomed the alien feeling with wide, open arms.
With my father away, the house only got noisier. The hallway was left crowded with Diana merch and novelty items from every thrift shop my mother could find in the area. When she wasn’t watching documentary series or movies on the life of Diana, she would play a game of pretend, like the one I liked as a child. She spoke with the most unbelievable UK accent with one of her ill fitted shoes.
Then she would ask, ‘Can you guess who I am?’. It was all fun and games when I was five laughing uncontrollably at my mother’s jokes but I was fifteen now and the sight was disturbing. When she got tired of the theatrics, she cried herself to sleep on those nights. She wailed and talked to herself loudly, ‘They never deserved her. No one did!’
My mother remained sober for the next few days. She moved from one part of the house to another in utter silence, it felt like living with a ghost that resolved to ignore rather than haunt. I prayed for things to stay this way, but they didn’t. Soon, she was back on her feet with the hysteria loud in her voice, calling for the justice of Diana’s death, even after all those years.
The yellow fever coloured hospital card with my mother’s full name; Lucy Onome Oghenevwede, written lazily with cursive that almost blurred the letters laid untouched on the counter, with its corners still sharp to the touch and her name uncreased. The other documents remained in a single file, battered with overuse.
Just like Princess Diana, my mother had a timeline. From forgetful walks in the park to writing notes on things she couldn’t remember. I began handling the shopping lists for dinner and shortly after, began cooking them too. She watched me stir the pot of soup with a longing in her eyes. I could never tell what she was thinking; no one could. In fact, not even she could tell most times.
With Princess Diana gone, I was convinced my mother was out of reach too. The sparkle in her eyes fizzled out until we couldn’t spot it any longer. It got replaced with something dark, twisted and undesirable. The overwhelming grief had opened a gap into her soul and nothing could ever fill it up. We were left with echoing reminders of what we used to be, with pending questions that needed urgent answers. With the hospital card barely touched and regarded, it stayed with us.
Everyone blamed Princess Diana for what my mother had become. For years, I did too. But it wasn’t about her. It was never about her. Hours of waiting and crying for help to the system led to my mother’s self-acceptance. They said she would be fine and urged us to patiently wait for our turn, but it never did, in fact, it might never come. We were waiting for a system that did not hurry for people like us.
With the sugary tea gone cold with a thin film settling perfectly in my mother’s cup and snores louder than the TV volume still wrongly pronouncing Princess Diana’s name, my mother remained undisturbed on the sofa. The programme finally ended with everything else in our lives unchanged.
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