The things we never said

…A reflection on suicide loss and the silence within families

There are deaths that leave families mourning, and deaths that leave families searching for answers long after the funeral is over.
Suicide is one of them.
I know this not only as a writer, poet and storyteller concerned about how Nigeria discusses suicide, but as a sibling who has lost a brother to it.
My brother was 26. He was a jolly good fellow, the kind of person who could make other people happy. Cheerful, sociable, with friends everywhere. When he died, the number of people who showed up was astonishing. It was a reminder of how many lives he had touched.

Yet while he was making others happy, he was dealing with difficulties of his own. He was dyslexic, and learning was not easy for him. As the years passed, he watched people around him progress through school while he struggled to find his footing. He had not graduated like others in the family. Learning a skill was proving difficult too.
We knew he had challenges. We did not understand their extent until much later. Looking back, I wonder what we dismissed, what he needed that we did not know how to give, which signs we did not recognise. Hindsight can be cruel. What I know is that he was loved, he had people around him, and he was carrying difficulties that were not always visible to those who loved him.

WHEN GRIEF BECOMES AN INVESTIGATION
I never imagined that losing my brother would take me to Panti Police Headquarters in Yaba, Lagos, to explain his death.
There is something disorienting about losing someone suddenly and then navigating the machinery that follows. You have not begun to process the loss, yet you are answering questions, making statements, moving from one office to another, trying to understand procedures you never imagined you would encounter.
I had not eaten. I could not tell whether it was lack of appetite, exhaustion, grief or shock. Sometimes the body continues to exist while the mind struggles to catch up.
The police wanted to show us photographs. I could not bring myself to look at pictures of my dead brother. I still have not, and I do not know when I will. There is no universal timetable for what a bereaved person should be able to face.
Then came the autopsy discussions: a lengthy process, possibly involving sending results to South Africa for further examination. We were left trying to understand what that meant and how long it would take.

A family member also had to identify the body. I could not go. My sibling went in my place, frightened but willing. What they encountered shook them deeply, and they came out visibly traumatised. The person conducting the procedure appeared accustomed to the work, as one might expect of someone who meets death professionally. But for my sibling, this was not another body. This was their brother.
That difference matters.

THE PROCEDURES AFTER THE LOSS
We were told the death had to be reported, statements taken and procedures followed, all tied to the death documentation and the eventual release of his body from the mortuary. There were requirements we had not known about, and we were repeatedly asked for money to facilitate different parts of the process, including movement and other arrangements.
I remember thinking: what exactly is happening? A family has just lost someone, yet must find its way through an unfamiliar system, make payments and keep up with instructions.
I recognise that sudden or suspicious deaths may require investigation, and that families deserve accurate answers. In Lagos State, the Coroners’ System Law provides for the reporting and investigation of certain deaths, including those that are violent, unnatural or suspicious. Such cases can involve post-mortem examinations, and an inquest may be held to establish the circumstances. Yet how many ordinary families understand this before they are suddenly confronted with it? How many know what to expect, what documentation they should receive, how long it may take, or where to seek clarification?
An investigation should not leave a bereaved family abandoned in a maze of requirements. We need to examine not only what the law requires, but how families experience it.

THE QUESTIONS FAITH CANNOT EASILY ANSWER
In Nigeria, grief often comes with religious questions. Faith is where many families turn when everything else seems to fail. But losing someone to suicide can complicate it.
Then come the questions people are afraid to ask aloud. Did he make it to heaven? Is there mercy for someone who reached such a difficult place? Are we allowed to hope for his eternal peace?
It is one thing to mourn the person you have lost; it is another to feel uncertain about how your religious community views the circumstances of that loss. I do not believe anyone should use religion to pronounce a final judgment on a person whose inner suffering they did not fully understand. We can take suicide seriously without pretending to know God’s final judgment. We can hold on to faith while extending compassion.

THE SHAME OF TELLING PEOPLE
How do you tell relatives that someone has died by suicide? Do you say it plainly, or soften the truth because you fear the questions that follow?
In some families, the circumstances are carefully concealed. People are told different versions of events. Some relatives are informed; others never know exactly what happened. Families do this out of fear of gossip, judgment, or the belief that such a death reflects badly on the whole family.
There is a painful contradiction here: a family can love someone deeply and still feel compelled to hide how they died. Privacy matters. Every family has the right to decide what it shares. But privacy should not be confused with shame. We should not create a society where grieving families feel they must apologise for the circumstances of a death.

THE GUILT OF THOSE WHO REMAIN
What if I had called? What if I had asked another question? What if I had noticed?
You examine ordinary family moments as though something hidden in them will finally explain what happened. But we cannot always know what another person is experiencing internally. Loving someone does not give us the ability to recognise every expression of distress. Families need spaces where they can talk about regret without being made to feel responsible for a death they may not have been able to prevent.

A MOTHER, AN ONLY SON AND A SILENCE THAT REMAINS
My brother was my mother’s only son and her last child. I do not know if there are words for what such a loss does to a mother.
Since his death, she has changed. She rarely talks about him. She sleeps a lot. There are days when it feels as though she simply sleeps, wakes and goes through the motions of living. The one place she finds some comfort is church. On his first death anniversary, she shared food there and attended a thanksgiving service. What exactly does one give thanks for when one is still struggling to understand a loss of that magnitude?

The rest of us carry it in our own ways. We rarely talk about him. When we do, the conversations are brief and superficial. Even on anniversaries, we simply move on with the day. But are we moving on, or have we learned to live around something we do not know how to discuss?
This is where the title becomes painfully real. The Things We Never Said is not only about conversations we wish we had had while he was alive. It is about the conversations we struggle to have after. The name we do not mention often enough. The questions we swallow. The grief we carry separately, even under the same roof.

BEYOND PUNISHMENT, TOWARDS UNDERSTANDING
Nigeria must change the way it talks about suicide. The Suicide Prevention Bill (SB 730), sponsored by Senator Asuquo Ekpenyong and passed at second reading in the Senate on 13 October 2026, would repeal federal provisions criminalising attempted suicide and replace them with a public-health approach built on assessment, treatment and support. It is a chance to meet people in distress with care, not humiliation or punishment.

But changing the law is only part of the work. We need stronger mental-health services, better public education, and families who know how to respond when someone is struggling. We also need to recognise that the people left behind need support, information and a safe place to grieve.
I understand that suicide can provoke anger, confusion and frustration. But our frustration must not become cruelty. We cannot keep mocking people experiencing suicidal thoughts or shaming families who have lost someone.

I write as a sibling who lost a brother, and as a poet who believes language can help us approach difficult truths. I cannot go back and change what happened. But I can speak about what came after: the family that navigated police procedures in shock, the sibling who had to identify him, the mother who rarely speaks of her son, and the relatives who struggle to say how he died.
My brother was more than the way he died. He made people laugh, he had friends, he had dreams, and he faced difficulties we did not fully understand. His life mattered. And the lives of those who remain matter, too.

Perhaps some questions will never have answers. But we can build families and communities where people are not afraid to speak about distress, and where those who have lost someone to suicide do not carry their grief in shame.
Some conversations are painful. Some may never be complete. But they must no longer be impossible.
We have said too little for too long.

By Otaly King