It feels like I am standing on a bridge, caught between two parallel worlds, both moving forward few meters apart. Just some few minutes ago, we were all gathered believing in prayer for my uncle’s final goodbye. And once the priest uttered his last words, and to dust he returns, life took a different turn without warning.
And in this moment, I witness how brutally unfair life can be.
I stare at the people behind me, and I wonder where their appetite is coming from, ironically holding my plate filled with rice and meat stew. It looks like sadness has suddenly been wiped off their faces, and the clock has allowed their lives to resume. I mean, the late has already reached his new home and the living, what choice do they have but to carry on?
But then, I look back at the sight in front of me;
My uncle’s children, and their children helplessly clinging to each other, as the heap covers their family glue beneath its darkness. On their faces, I read the desperate wish for this dark cloud that hovers to clear soon.
Guilt sends a burning sensation down my spine and I wonder if I truly feel the pain that they do. I feel guilty for stepping away to tend to mourners’ rising demand for a plate, while their emotional needs went unanswered. I’m angered by my decision to dry my tears too quickly, instead of standing in mourning beside these children I claim to love so deeply.
I stand for several minutes, watching them place roses on the fresh grave, and lighting candles to guide him on his new path. It sinks in; he is truly gone. A man who always called me ‘mother’, now tucked away from the face of the earth. And here I am, daring to walk away as if his identity is not engraved in my DNA.
I swallow the ache in my throat, grab a seat next to the other family members, and silently turn to my notepad.
I begin to write, knowing those children’s image at their father’s grave will never be erased from my memory. My uncle’s demise hurts me, but what aches even more is witnessing the deep sorrow of those I love, as they mourn his absence.
Wanja.