Death In The Time Of Facebook.
It will begin with a vague post. “So shocked!” “Gone Too Soon” “#RIP” You will know something has happened but won’t know what. Suddenly more and more of the vague posts will flood your timeline. You will follow the comments in the post looking for clues. At some point the familiar name of an acquaintance you knew only from high school, or TV, or Facebook or the church parking lot, or as a friend of a friend of a friend will pop up. You will join in the shock. You will question how someone so young died so suddenly. You will return to the comments on each post.
Someone will post #RIP and link to his name. You will click on her profile looking for the story. She wasn’t that close a friend but you need to know. You will search through her common friends pages looking for answers. To feed your curiosity. At some point images of vehicles in a crash will emerge. “He stood no chance,” you will think. “Oh the cancer was stage four, maybe they shouldn’t have bothered with treatment,” you will say as you engage in an inbox conversation with a doctor friend. “Suicide? Aiii why? Depression? Kwani she didn’t have friends? He should have just picked himself up."
In the midst of it all you will scribble a thoughtful status update about the last time you saw him. Years back you shared a class. He always saved you a seat. You bumped into her at a concert just two weeks ago. She looked so happy. You will miss her. And then you will return to her profile page. You will go through her final posts and read the “signs”. You will think to yourself she probably saw it coming. He lived his life to the fullest and died doing what he loved best. A Paul Coelho “share” will signal to you that death was imminent.
You will start a whatsapp conversation with a mutual friend. “How did the accident happen? Was he drunk? Did he have a lead foot?” In your feeble attempt to purge the reality of the loss, you will confine a whole human’s lifetime to a drunken error of judgement regardless of how they lived the day, weeks, months or years before. You will apportion blame to the deceased because “he should know that bikes and Subarus are suicidal” or “she shouldn’t have been out at night anyway.” You will be indifferent to the fundraiser to return a body from India. “If it were me I’d be cremated” or “They should’ve just treated her at KNH instead of leaving the family in debt.”
You will join the Facebook page “In Memory of…” and share a thought, a verse or a link to a Don Moen song on YouTube. Or just be silent. You will find out where meetings are happening and probably never show up, or go because another mutual friend is going that you don’t mind sitting with. You will take a couple of hours off from work to show up at the funeral service; if the venue is “close to town”. You will wipe a tear through the tributes while asking your friend who the guy sitting next to the mum is. You will stare at his girlfriend pitifully. You will post and tag your location with a picture of the funeral program to show the world how much you cared. You will view the body and join a circle of old friends chatting on the sidelines. You will attend a funeral and you will go home.
And somewhere on the pews of the same church, someone will attend that same funeral, and wish they never had to go back home.
#PeniMbili #ThoughtfulThursday
Friday, September 23, 2016
Purging Mom
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, should be carried away to heaven on a soft foamy cloud surrounded by angels with harps playing them their favourite Solomon Mkubwa and Rose Muhando tunes.
For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers should earn a right to fly first class on those self-contained deluxe rooms in the air that they only got to see on television in their lifetimes. They should be flown to the Maldives, allowed a few days on the beach before the soft foamy cloud, in their favourite color, comes to lift them up to the pearly gates.
For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, protecting their childrens' innocence till the cracks of years of pain begin to become apparent in latter days, for all the tears, mothers should be driven in Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, escorted by bodyguards like VVIPs and boarded on the runway on that flight to the Maldives - and eventually end up on a soft foamy cloud, with a chef serving them all the food they had to stop eating years back on doctor's orders - or because school fees.
For standing strong behind men who did or didn't deserve that strength or support, men who probably took them for granted and snored through their wives' sobbing into pillows deep in the night, for that, mothers surely, should live their last days in the home of their dreams. That home that they secretly took pictures of when they crossed the city to attend chama or a ruracio. That home they could have afforded if they put their own dreams before paying for their childrens' university degrees. For their strength mothers, should enjoy having guards in uniform open gates a kilometre away, valet parking and have Suzanne Owiyo perform to welcome their guests to the housewarming party, before they depart for the airport in their Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, to be boarded on a luxury jet and fly first class to the Maldives. And a soft foamy cloud, would lift them up to the heavens - after finally figuring out what you meant when you told them you went jet skiing.
And when the cloud would descend on to the beach in the Maldives, a mother would say "I have lived a full life. I have done all I needed and wanted. My children are fine without me. I am good to go! Bring on the cloud already! My maker awaits!"
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, shouldn't die helplessly alone and frightened in a hospital bed with an oblivious nurse just metres away. For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers deserve better than to be laid on the bare cold floor of a morgue. For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, mothers should probably be allowed a final prayer of their own. For all their strength, mothers should be allowed to finish strong. To finish on their terms; even when the end comes sooner than they expected.
Mothers.
Because you only get one. And when she's gone, she's gone.
For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers should earn a right to fly first class on those self-contained deluxe rooms in the air that they only got to see on television in their lifetimes. They should be flown to the Maldives, allowed a few days on the beach before the soft foamy cloud, in their favourite color, comes to lift them up to the pearly gates.
For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, protecting their childrens' innocence till the cracks of years of pain begin to become apparent in latter days, for all the tears, mothers should be driven in Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, escorted by bodyguards like VVIPs and boarded on the runway on that flight to the Maldives - and eventually end up on a soft foamy cloud, with a chef serving them all the food they had to stop eating years back on doctor's orders - or because school fees.
For standing strong behind men who did or didn't deserve that strength or support, men who probably took them for granted and snored through their wives' sobbing into pillows deep in the night, for that, mothers surely, should live their last days in the home of their dreams. That home that they secretly took pictures of when they crossed the city to attend chama or a ruracio. That home they could have afforded if they put their own dreams before paying for their childrens' university degrees. For their strength mothers, should enjoy having guards in uniform open gates a kilometre away, valet parking and have Suzanne Owiyo perform to welcome their guests to the housewarming party, before they depart for the airport in their Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, to be boarded on a luxury jet and fly first class to the Maldives. And a soft foamy cloud, would lift them up to the heavens - after finally figuring out what you meant when you told them you went jet skiing.
And when the cloud would descend on to the beach in the Maldives, a mother would say "I have lived a full life. I have done all I needed and wanted. My children are fine without me. I am good to go! Bring on the cloud already! My maker awaits!"
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, shouldn't die helplessly alone and frightened in a hospital bed with an oblivious nurse just metres away. For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers deserve better than to be laid on the bare cold floor of a morgue. For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, mothers should probably be allowed a final prayer of their own. For all their strength, mothers should be allowed to finish strong. To finish on their terms; even when the end comes sooner than they expected.
Mothers.
Because you only get one. And when she's gone, she's gone.
(7) - Chapter One
He's so perfect.
Buzz Buzz. The fuchsia blink on her phone is an alert that he's on the other end. She grabs her phone quickly and swipes up. (7). Seven. That means seven perfectly crafted messages. Seven heartfelt thoughts. Seven things to look forward to.
He crept up on her. Quite literally. Not her type, she had thought. Wait, why did she care, she didn't have a type. She didn't need to have a type. Who needs a type when you don't need anyone at all. When you're done and dusted. Just good all by yourself. Who needs a type when you've thrown in the towel. Retired from the game. When you just don't want to even think that you could love again - trust again. That you could give your heart to another human to destroy, again. That you could even find the pieces of your broken heart that are delicately being held together just so you can remain alive. That you could hand those pieces over to another being and trust that they won't give you back your heart worse than it was?
(7). That's seven more times that she'll feel a touch of warmth and a shiver of cold all at once! Her body will quiver and she'll sink into her bed and hug herself. She'll close her eyes and imagine him there. He'd be staring right into her eyes and she into his. His eyes - so honest. Carrying the pain of years before and baring it bravely before her. She'd place her palm on his cheek, wishing his pain away. As if just the touch of her hand would be the cure.
He crept up on her. By God did he creep up on her! She prides herself in being able to sniff even the slightest whiff of interest from a mile away. She might need to pride myself in something else! There really was nothing to sniff though. It was a greeting. And then a joke. And another joke. And then a string of back and forth - greetings and jokes. They were both world's apart minding their own. Everyone settled in their little corner of misery. Showing the best of themselves to the world while dying inside. Showing the best of themselves to each other while dying inside. Days and nights shrunk. Encompassed in endless conversations about every minute detail of their days. Only the human need to rest would stop them. Sleep. Wake-up. Repeat. Who would be the first to greet and joke is what they became. They summited to the peak in just a few days. Without as much as a struggle. Seamlessly. They became each other's worlds. Everything revolved around this little dream they had created. But who would be the first to break?
(7). She stares at them. As if opening them would set her up on a course to sure destruction. Maybe it will someday, but not today! Today she looks at her phone and feels him give her a back hug and kiss kiss her neck. He whispers "I love you.." and she believes him. She looks at her phone and hears him get back at her for a joke she made at his expense the night before. She laughs, picks up a pillow and tries to hit him with it. A hopeless venture. He was always stronger, faster, more agile. She looks at her phone today and giggles as he wrestles her to the bed and pins her down.
He really did creep up on her! He did! They had absolutely nothing in common - until they did. Different worlds, different cares, different lives. One act of thoughtfulness led to the blossoming of a love so deeply rooted in honest and genuine friendship. Killing whatever snide notions she had of men left in her. Completely stripping her of the deep-seated anger and disdain that she'd made a part of her all these years. One act of thoughtfulness. A greeting. And a joke.
(7). And so she clicks and scrolls. Before, in another life, she would be afraid. Afraid of what she would find on the other end of the click. Afraid that it would be (0). Afraid of the heartache. Afraid of the unrequited love. Afraid of harsh words spoken in anger that cut deep. Afraid of the end. But not now. She's not afraid to click. She's not putting it off any longer. That click is her play button. It signals the start of a new day of clicks! Of (7), (49), (158). The click allows her to dream. And to love as deeply as she chooses to love.
And she will be allowed to love and allow herself to be loved. Again.
Buzz Buzz. The fuchsia blink on her phone is an alert that he's on the other end. She grabs her phone quickly and swipes up. (7). Seven. That means seven perfectly crafted messages. Seven heartfelt thoughts. Seven things to look forward to.
He crept up on her. Quite literally. Not her type, she had thought. Wait, why did she care, she didn't have a type. She didn't need to have a type. Who needs a type when you don't need anyone at all. When you're done and dusted. Just good all by yourself. Who needs a type when you've thrown in the towel. Retired from the game. When you just don't want to even think that you could love again - trust again. That you could give your heart to another human to destroy, again. That you could even find the pieces of your broken heart that are delicately being held together just so you can remain alive. That you could hand those pieces over to another being and trust that they won't give you back your heart worse than it was?
(7). That's seven more times that she'll feel a touch of warmth and a shiver of cold all at once! Her body will quiver and she'll sink into her bed and hug herself. She'll close her eyes and imagine him there. He'd be staring right into her eyes and she into his. His eyes - so honest. Carrying the pain of years before and baring it bravely before her. She'd place her palm on his cheek, wishing his pain away. As if just the touch of her hand would be the cure.
He crept up on her. By God did he creep up on her! She prides herself in being able to sniff even the slightest whiff of interest from a mile away. She might need to pride myself in something else! There really was nothing to sniff though. It was a greeting. And then a joke. And another joke. And then a string of back and forth - greetings and jokes. They were both world's apart minding their own. Everyone settled in their little corner of misery. Showing the best of themselves to the world while dying inside. Showing the best of themselves to each other while dying inside. Days and nights shrunk. Encompassed in endless conversations about every minute detail of their days. Only the human need to rest would stop them. Sleep. Wake-up. Repeat. Who would be the first to greet and joke is what they became. They summited to the peak in just a few days. Without as much as a struggle. Seamlessly. They became each other's worlds. Everything revolved around this little dream they had created. But who would be the first to break?
(7). She stares at them. As if opening them would set her up on a course to sure destruction. Maybe it will someday, but not today! Today she looks at her phone and feels him give her a back hug and kiss kiss her neck. He whispers "I love you.." and she believes him. She looks at her phone and hears him get back at her for a joke she made at his expense the night before. She laughs, picks up a pillow and tries to hit him with it. A hopeless venture. He was always stronger, faster, more agile. She looks at her phone today and giggles as he wrestles her to the bed and pins her down.
He really did creep up on her! He did! They had absolutely nothing in common - until they did. Different worlds, different cares, different lives. One act of thoughtfulness led to the blossoming of a love so deeply rooted in honest and genuine friendship. Killing whatever snide notions she had of men left in her. Completely stripping her of the deep-seated anger and disdain that she'd made a part of her all these years. One act of thoughtfulness. A greeting. And a joke.
(7). And so she clicks and scrolls. Before, in another life, she would be afraid. Afraid of what she would find on the other end of the click. Afraid that it would be (0). Afraid of the heartache. Afraid of the unrequited love. Afraid of harsh words spoken in anger that cut deep. Afraid of the end. But not now. She's not afraid to click. She's not putting it off any longer. That click is her play button. It signals the start of a new day of clicks! Of (7), (49), (158). The click allows her to dream. And to love as deeply as she chooses to love.
And she will be allowed to love and allow herself to be loved. Again.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Getting UnStuck
I can't buy your love, don't even wanna try.
Sometimes the truth won't make you happy, still I'm not gonna lie.
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you.
I know I'm far from perfect, nothin' like your entourage
I can't grant you any wishes, I won't promise you the stars.
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you.
- Emeli Sande, My Kind Of Love
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