Our Memories become our Stories

I saw the news this week that Olu Jacobs had passed away.

I’d watched from afar as his wife, Joke Silva, spoke publicly over the years about his dementia. And sadly, dementia is something my family knows too.

Every time I saw a post about him, it took me back to losing someone we loved to dementia a few years ago.

And I think that’s one of the reasons I’ve started writing things down more.

The ridiculous things my parents said. The phone numbers I somehow still remember. The stories my children will probably swear never happened. The people we were before life changed us.

Even without illness, forgetting something can send us into a panic. During pregnancy we joke about baby brain, but my goodness, it’s not funny when you genuinely cannot remember something you know you know. Like the name you’d always planned to give your daughter. Imagine carrying the child and forgetting her name before she even arrives. 😭😂

And let’s not even get started on what my allegedly perimenopausal brain gets up to these days. Looking for my phone as I’m talking on it 😭 I remain in denial mbók. 😩

Now imagine knowing your memory might not come back. Imagine things just slipping away slowly. Voices, faces, places.

Jules was a force to be reckoned with. A strong woman, sound in mind and character. Tough as a periwinkle and fit as a fiddle…

Until one day, she started forgetting.

But it wasn’t all sadness.

There were moments when she would suddenly light up like a Christmas tree and start singing and dancing to songs from her childhood.

And for those moments, she was just… happy.

In a strange way, it was beautiful to watch. She was free. Not necessarily by choice, perhaps, but she’d sing. She’d dance. She’d smile.

And we’d all smile with her.

Memory is a funny thing.

We assume the moments we’re living now will always be somewhere inside us, ready whenever we want to reach for them.

Maybe they won’t.

So perhaps this weekend, get yourself a journal and write something down.

Not because you’re frightened you’ll forget.

Just because it happened.

Because you were there.

Because one day, somebody might want to know.

And because our ordinary little stories are part of our history too.

Our legacy… as my mum would say.

Rest well, Mr Olu Jacobs. And rest well, my darling Jules Mama ❤️

See you next Friday for some more Mbōk ☕️

Reflection: Perhaps this is why I write. ❤️