In memory of...
The day my father died was just like any other day. The sun rose and set like it had done the day before and did the day after. We had lunch and failed on dinner because the adults were wailing non-stop. I was thirteen years old -that is old enough to know and feel the pain of losing a loved one. Losing a father. I, however didn't feel anything at the time except guilt for still wanting to eat when everyone else in the house didn't feel hungry. Thing is, I hardly knew this guy who had passed on. I could count the number of conversations we'd had in his lifetime with my one hand and even then there'd still be a few fingers left. The burial ceremony was set in motion, relatives from far and near came to bid farewell to him and I still felt like a stranger in this sea of humans who kept saying "Bambi! obwana nga buto! " Loosely translated to " Shame! The children are still young! "..... My siblings got to wear the black clothes and got