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 all pampered and I was just another spectator.. and it still didn't hurt.

After the ceremonies and everybody's goodbyes, one of my brothers (he was four years old) walked up to me and asked what it meant to die. 

"Did it mean that Daddy would not come back in the evening with milk?"

"Does death mean no more ice-cream from Uncle?" A younger cousin chipped.

"No more action films?" Another brother asked.

And then it hit me! He was their person. I didn't know him (even though he was my father) but I knew them. And they were hurting. 

They probably didn't know how much they were hurting but I looked in their eyes and saw pain.

And it hurt. 

It hurt that their ice-cream and action film provider would not be showing up any more.

It hurt that I was hurting on their behalf and not on my own.

It still hurts that he left before I knew him or that for the thirteen years I'd been in existence, he had never tried to get to know me- maybe he had. 

Why am I reminiscing over that gloomy second week of January? 

Well, this morning a loved one called me asking if I could share a friend's number who works at a hospital because her employee was critically ill. Moments later, news came through that this gentleman's soul had left his body for another realm. 

Now that hurt! 

And it is still hurting. It's hurting for his four children who will not witness the burial of their father. Children who might never see their father's burial site (he's being buried in a foreign country). 

I hurt for the widow who's been looking forward to the regular remittances in order to keep their house in order. 

I hurt for the brother with whom he's been sharing a house- a dream to better their living conditions. With whom they had plans of conquering the world....

I hurt for his employer who has been signing his paycheck every month and now she will have to sign one less and even she somehow finds another person who can do his job, it will not be him. 

I closed my eyes and remembered the time I spent with him while he made my daughter's dress for a school concert and I could hear the Zouk music play like it was just in the next room. 

I couldn't stop crying and I can't stop wishing his family and all the families who have lost loved ones today and days before will find comfort in something- anything. 

I know all this pain and tears will be nothing but a memory in the face of all that life throws at me but for today, I pray for the families. I pray they find peace- somehow.

I pray they keep their candles burning in memory of the love they've shared with the fallen members.