The price every man pays.

Death and Grief

Ũhana atĩa Cũcũ?

(Kikuyu for: How are you doing grandmother)

I know it is very weird to write to a paranomial being. One that “rested” as they say it. But bear with me please. It is a desperate measure. One that I take to try to understand the concept of death. Oh, my bad! The concept of “resting”. A measure I take to try to answer the perennial of questions that consumingly form an ouroboros in my mind. One that I take to try to shake off this grief perhaps.

To Cũcũ:

Did you know that your clock would stop ticking soon?

Was the angel of death always at the periphery of your vision? Did you always catch a glance of his black robe dancing whimsically in the wind? Did he always follow you around? Was he always at some corner, rocking back and forth in a hammock, perhaps sipping on a glass of milk, waiting for his designated time to take action? Did he slowly but surely dig his ugly claws into your not so fleshy shoulders until he got a good grip of you?

Or did he out of nowhere come knocking on your door? Was this the first time? If not, how come you chose to open the door this time? Did the sight of his grotesque features and long scythe scare the life out of you (literally)? Did you welcome him in as you always did to all your guests? Did you offer him a cup of sweet tea in those metallic cups? Did you give him a coaster as well? Perhaps that is why he thought he was welcome.

Or did you not? Did you not offer him a coaster so that he wouldn't be so comfortable? So that you wouldn't look so friendly? Or maybe because you thought you'd be left behind to wipe the ring of tea formed on the table? Did you anticipate to negotiate your way out of death? Did you hope that the cup of tea would convince him to resign from his atrocious job? Or maybe he was angry that you didn't serve it with a side of yams or sweet potatoes as you were accustomed to?

Or maybe he won you over by the flashy promise of being reunited with your lover who “rested” fifteen years earlier?

Or were you just tired? Did it not take him much oratory extravagance to convince you to walk out the door beside him?

At your hour of departure, what did you think about? Who or what came to your mind? Was it your departed sweetheart whom you hoped to meet? Was it your children who would be defeated by the news? Was it your only remaining brother, who would be shook to debilitation to the point he couldn't attend your send off ceremony? Was it the long and beautiful hedge meticulously planted around your homestead that failed to keep your “guest” away? Was it the flowers planted on the hedge that would later be plucked and planted in your new resting place? Was it the things you wished to have accomplished but tidspotimism got the better part of you? Was it your home which would be left with a feeling of inebriating emptiness even with people filling it beyond it’s capacity? Was it your favourite dress which you wished to be laid to rest in? Was it the coffin they would choose for you? Was it the picture they’d chose to put on your eulogy? (You looked so beautiful by the way. Your smile made my heart find peace. And oh! How beautiful your cheekbones looked)

I’d honestly go on and on but my only impetus would be the hope of receiving answers which I’m too sure I might not.

So till we meet again Cũcũ. I love you forever and always.

Your loving grandchild,

Soni