Grandmother took a digging bend to wail
upon the death of her son who had died while she was away for her
daughter-in-law burial. The owls had hooted in her mind, stomach and abdomen
alike. The god of death was lengthening her physical life as it destroyed her
soul. Her son, the only highly educated, the only who could do her a shopping
when he arrived home, the only who had a future lied on a cheap bed on her
house, with uncountable children in the city, going, gone, went.
Oh death, where is thy sting!
Among the preparing-to-wake up thoughts in
some random mornings include the possibility of a fatal day that may lead to
death. A preventive measure would be to avoid waking up and going away. But
don't we say that problems search for you? What if death came today? Who will
attend my burial and who will not? How will I be celebrated? Will someone cry?
Have I done anything so far? Oh death, wait for me to accomplish
something.
Death has listened to me.
Death does not listen to everyone. It may
not have listened to me- just a personal conviction that it listened. It dint
listen to the parents of the orphans in the slums. It dint listen to my uncle.
It dint hear the cry of the one who lay on a Nissan carrier, under taboos to be
taken to the rural side for burial. Groans, moans and it will be over, life
moving on.
We have the minds of chickens- only an
enlargement.
As she narrated the failures of her son,
she poured her heart to the whore his son married. A whore that cherished city
life. A whore that would be forced to sleep in a quickly raised cold muddy
structure. A whore that has brought shame to his son. A whore that gave his son
the deadly disease. Poor daughter of the other ridge. She won't step in the
compound again; never. No matter what. Once he's buried she'll leave. Leave for
once and forever cursing the disgusts.
The lack of inheritance will destabilize
the family for a generation. Or viciously another generation. Or forever.
The contention to squander that we fall
victims of once in the city blinds us. Sometimes the money can help us live to
a certain margin- never having much to invest. At the time of crisis, there is
little for the family. Death arrangements swallow the remainder. Children are
torn into living in the country side or going to the city streets. It is like
if you saw yourself poor, unable to have your family contained, you would
rather never sired and died lostfully to have a governmental escort in a local cemetery.
A win
For days are not what they were, and I,
Ezeulu, can witness to that.
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| A Nissan carrying a coffin and a few belongings. |
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