This morning, 14 days after Mama died, another guardian of our home took her leave.
Her name was Nora.
Born in April 2015 — a small dividend of Valentine’s Day, arriving weeks later in the form of a warm, wriggling life.
A dormant German Shepherd mixed with something stronger, faster, wilder.
A dog with the gait of royalty — broad chest, shiny fur, eyes that never missed anything.
When Nora walked, she walked like a king.
Nobody contested her path.
Nobody ever tried.
She was beautiful in that intimidating way certain animals are — sleek, strong, majestic.
People admired her from afar, but no one dared to reach out their hand.
One person tried; that story is still being used to warn children.
Everyone wanted a piece of Nora, but Nora belonged only to us.
She was not a pet.
She was a presence.
And she was ours.
When she arrived on the dawn of April 2015, she was barely 8 days old.
She would curl up on the bed just by Abimbola’s stomach like she was trying to absorb body heat.
I couldn’t even stand her, but she was so innocent-looking, dark in colour, that I thought she would have black fur like those police dogs.
She would lie completely flat on her stomach and stretch, and we had to consult Google for everything — and for every consultation, we realised she was simply doing what every German Shepherd does.
Nora loved it when it was very cold, so she lay on the tiles.
And when it rained — forget it — she would not obey any instruction.
We struggled in the rain to get her out until we eventually gave up as an impossible battle to win.
Rain was her joy. She would sprint, roll on the ground, and let the water pour on her.
It was her favourite part of our Nigerian weather.
As an adult dog she turned golden yellow with only a black spot on her nose.
She was very beautiful.
When we lived in a busy urban neighbourhood, she was a meanie.
I remember when workers climbed a neighbour’s roof to make repairs. Nora was barely a year old. It was Iya Titi’s house. Nora barked the entire day.
Iya Titi would occasionally yell from her house, “Nora, you will get tired!”
But Nora did not get tired.
She barked from sunrise till sunset until they finished their work. Every time they moved close to our fence, she barked again — a warning siren: fierce, focused, tireless.
Not one man dared cross her invisible line.
They even called us to ask if they were safe.
Of course they were safe — but not from peace of mind and attempted foolishness.
Nora made sure they understood: This boundary is mine. These people are mine.
Iya Titi, our neighbour then, recounted their ordeal many times and asked if we gave her paracetamol, because how? How could Nora bark one day non-stop? But Nora was alright, she did what she did.
Oh, before I forget, we fed Nora like a king.
People would say the dog ate better than their households.
But we knew she was an investment — and we invested in her wellbeing because she invested her whole life in us.
When we moved to another packaged area of Lagos, the security became legendary.
She didn’t guard just our house. Nora guarded four houses:
- ours
- the one behind us
- the one beside us
- and the one behind the one beside us
Security issue?
Not on Nora’s watch.
Day or night, she patrolled like a trained officer.
Yet behind all that strength lived a softness.
Inside our walls, she was a baby — rolling on her back for belly rubs, nudging your hand, dancing when someone she loved arrived or walked past, whining when we went away for a few days and returned, or circling herself in excitement at the sound of our car tyres. She danced — full-body joy, tail like a metronome, head tilted, waiting for full attention.
Oh, she loved biscuits.
You know, she was a warrior outside, but inside our compound, Nora was a child.
Except with strangers.
Nora was the strictest immigration officer God ever created.
She recognised no one who wasn’t family.
Domestic workers? More than ten years — she didn’t blink.
Even if some lived with us four years in a row, she barked like they walked in afresh every morning. Zero tolerance — it was almost as if she kept them on their toes to know she was watching them in 3D.
Neighbours?
She barked like they were invading Babylon.
But her loyalty had intelligence.
She loved only those born into our hands — especially my nieces.
They all came after her arrival.
They climbed on her, tugged her ears, balanced themselves by holding her face, dragged her tail to walk when they were babies — and she simply stayed still… patient, playing, gentle, devoted, like she was their mother too.
It always amazed me.
Ada lived with us before Ayo was born, and Nora hated Ada.
But Ayo — this tiny human — would order her around, and Nora obeyed.
Ayo wielded more authority over her than Hitler and the Nazi party had over freedom.
Nora did not dare defy this tiny human.
She guarded them with a devotion that felt inherited, as if she understood:
“These little ones belong to my people.”
That is the miracle of dogs.
They know their own.
There’s a story we will never forget.
We had just moved houses to our new neighbourhood.
I had to leave early, and my sister walked with me because, of course, I am afraid of any creature that breathes and isn’t human.
The street was still new, unfamiliar, and a stray dog — wild, unpredictable — ran towards us.
Before fear even formed in our throats, Nora, who had been walking ahead, spun around with the speed of ten dogs combined.
In one move — clean, sharp, instinctive — she centred herself between us and danger.
Her stance was majestic.
Her bark?
Thunder.
Another stray joined.
Nora didn’t move.
She stood like a king guarding a territory, forcing the strays back step by step until the road was ours again.
Afterward, when we could breathe, we marvelled at her body movement as we walked.
My sister held the leash, but truly, Nora was the one leading.
Nora walked calmly ahead, as if to say:
“I told you — no harm will touch you while I am here.”
And none did.
She could outrun birds, catch them mid-air and kill them — but she never ate them.
I always wondered why.
She killed many stray chickens in one breath.
We never saw a rodent.
Not even the monkeys that invaded the neighbourhood after their reserved area was cleared — they never came near our home. One time they did and busted all the pipes, but Nora was barking and we didn’t pay attention. When we realised those monkeys had busted our pipes and those of our neighbours, we learnt another lesson of “never ignore Nora” that day.
She sensed visitors long before they reached our street.
She knew the sound of the school bus.
We knew her barks — the one for “known person,” the one for “stranger,” the one for “intruder,” and the one for “foolish person.”
Her ears were tuned to the frequency of our family.
I am personally afraid of dogs.
My grandmother too.
But Nora insisted on loving us. Sometimes by eating my shoe for sport.
She waited for the sound of my footsteps.
Recognised my voice.
Accepted treats with the gentleness of a priest taking communion.
She knew when we prayed.
She knew when we were leaving for Mass.
She knew when something in the house was wrong.
She was magnificent like that, inside and out.
People begged my mother to let her mate — “This kind of dog should have children!”
But Nora rejected every male brought to her.
She died childless — a warrior who chose loyalty over lineage.
Even when she annoyed us — like the day she mistakenly ran past me and I fell — she tilted her head and widened her eyes until my anger melted into laughter. Of course, it was not Nora’s fault that I am a petrified human.
Whenever she fell ill, my mother moved like a woman saving her own child — calling vets, buying medicines, arranging immunisations.
Nora never missed one.
Not once.
She was cared for the same way my mother cared for us.
And then this morning —
A Sunday.
The same day my Grandma died.
Almost the same hour.
Nora closed her eyes for the last time.
She waited.
Just like Mama waited.
Some departures are arranged in Heaven, not on earth.
Nora lived eleven years like a soldier at a post.
And when the woman she guarded from afar had gone home, she knew the house had a form of silence, so Nora ended her watch too.
People who have never loved a dog will think this is exaggeration.
But those who have will read this with tears:
Dogs know.
Dogs feel.
Dogs love with a purity humans rarely manage.
Dogs stay when others leave.
Dogs protect beyond logic.
Dogs hear what we’re afraid to say out loud.
Dogs understand loyalty better than many people.
There is something sacred in her exit timing.
This kind of household member does not die randomly.
I remembered our little joke yesterday: prayer for the dead is a win-win-win —
- If they are in Heaven: praise
- If in Purgatory: it’s like a cooling breeze
- If in Hell: God reallocates the prayer like surplus budget for someone else.
And I whispered:
“Lord, if You apply the win-win rule anywhere, let it also be for creatures like Nora —
who never sinned, never lied, never pretended, who loved us fully.
If Heaven is praise, let her bark be music.
If there is rest, let her sleep in grass without fear.
If You reallocate prayers, take ours and keep her close.”
Because if loyalty has a sound, it is Nora’s heartbeat.
If protection has a posture, it is Nora standing between you and danger.
If love has a body, sometimes it walks on four legs like Nora.
My grandmother prayed for us every day.
Nora watched over us every night.
Both of them left within two weeks.
Perhaps in Heaven, Mama is telling the angels:
“That’s my dog. She guarded my children.”
And perhaps Nora is lying at Mama’s feet, keeping watch in the only language she ever knew:
Loyalty.
Mama, who feared dogs on earth just like me, is now holding the spirit of the dog who protected her grandchildren.
What a reunion that must be.
No living thing dared enter our home because Nora was there.
She protected four houses though she lived in ours.
She was Mama’s friend.
She was my nieces’ guardian.
She was our silent soldier.
I really loved her.
Now I don’t know what my poor mother will do.
Knowing Nora was outside made us sleep without checking if the gate was locked, because only a fool would dare.
Now that our patrol officer — the second to Mama in watching day and night — is gone, what will we do?
What will Chappy, who has been her companion, disturbing her life like puppies do for the last two years of her life, do?
Nora lived almost 11 years.
And today, I am very, very sad.
Because we didn’t just lose a pet.
We lost a presence.
We lost a protector.
We lost a loyal heart.
Rest well, Nora.
You served us faithfully.
Thank you for your strength.
Thank you for your loyalty.
Thank you for your service.
Thank you for the eleven years you watched us, circled us, barked for us,
and loved us in the only language dogs know —
unconditionally.
You were more than a pet.
You were family.
And today, we say:
Rest well, Nora.
You followed Mama home.
Your watch is done.
With love and painful memory,
PS: If you want to follow the complete series of Alice The Matriarch, you can find it below:
Day 1 – Where My Story Truly Begins – Olú Abíkóyè
DAY 2 — When Mama Told Me to Walk – Olú Abíkóyè