“Don’t
be shocked,“ the voice of my Getu said on the other side of the telephone line
– worlds apart, “He has rested.” She concluded a call that lasted 13 Seconds.
Considering
I was living and working many kilometers away from home – on the other part of
the world, I usually don’t receive Getu’s calls because it is costly for this
60-year-old. So I let my phone ring until the 1-minute call attempt is reached
for the phone to auto-hang up, which it did. But when I called back, she
appeared to be on “another call” and my continued attempts were naught until
she called back and I received her call within the first ring – and the
conversation lasted 13 seconds!
Twenty
one (21) days prior to this call (21st May 2014), seated in my
expansive executive office chair and swinging sensibly to the tune of the
afternoon breeze, I was recipient of a distress call that ended with, “He
collapsed in his chair, can’t speak and succumbed to a stroke.” I froze.
Swinging stopped. This time, I had the courage to ask what happened and when.
2pm. Beneath a mango tree. In his chair. He had just finished his lunch and was
doing what he habitually does after food – rest. Watch. Listen. This time
though, he neither rested, watched nor listened – this luxury had been chopped
off. Were it not for my cousin brother who was passing by and attempted to
greet my old buddy; and when no response came he moved closer only to notice
his unnatural slump in that chair. Destination – hospital. Admitted. The second
admission he had in his entire life.
I
was startled as I started my plan to go see my old buddy. In the meantime,
necessity invited me to search information regarding “stroke” – thanks to
Google for there was plenty. There was promise. There was hope.
My
journey lasted 19 hours, filled with anxiety, restlessness and hopefulness.
Memories engulfed and seized my being akin to poetic fantasy. This man, this
old man, was my buddy. My childhood years were squarely laid bare in his
capable hands right from my 7th Birthday to my 15th. He
first cooked for me (at age 7) and taught me how to cook; he was my nurse in my
illness; he taught me the importance of respect and good manners; we slept in
one bedroom and he thus became my first roommate in life. I slept in my small
foldable spring bed that I at times dived in and let it rock me – to sleep; and
he slept in his big wooden bed that he never ever left un-made. I imitated him.
His penchant rules of life included; respect everyone; be kind; don’t break the
law; be disciplined. He was a very strict disciplinarian in every sense of the
word. He kept in mind my faults/misdeamors and on the count of three, he would
bring out his cane (I never knew where he hid it) and gave me a thorough
beating, told me to be a better boy (I always thanked him after these beatings).
As
an electric fitter, he couldn’t boast a decent education because he studied up to
standard three in primary school and yet he could boast of some vocabulary in
English – usually these disjointed one-syllable words (I think he acquired some
of these words when he worked for the Wazungus).
I also noticed that his incorrect pronunciation of certain words was basically
an imitation of what he had heard from people (he never bothered to get the
right pronunciation). That notwithstanding, he was proud of what he knew. Most
importantly though, he liked educating his children and all his 25 children
managed to go to school (until such a time or level they chose to stop or drop
out). This is a man, who, at the end of every school term always selected an
“academic day” at one of his houses for which he held court with all his
school-going children. At that point, the eldest child would be given the privilege
to read all the Report Cards. This included everyone’s marks, position in class
and the teachers’ remarks. After every read, he would delve into passionate
counseling each and everyone regarding the school performance. If an
improvement had been made from the previous, he would lavish praise and
congratulations; otherwise he would scorn and admonish. Punishment was meted to
anyone who failed in school and also those whose behaviours had been wanting
(it included a handful of cane strokes). He dismissed the court with a stern
insistence of the need to everyone to work hard. He said that the only
inheritance he would bestore upon us was giving us an opportunity to be
educated, whoever missed it, and he was blameless. This man motivated me to
read. And reading I did. And reading still do. Reading became a permanent
fixture in my life.
Thanks
for the memories for they became my companion in the journey.
I
arrived at the hospital and behold, here was my old buddy. Sick. Tired. Frail.
Helpless. My two mothers had been keeping him vigil for the last few days. His
entire right half of the body had frozen. Cold. Senseless. Upon recognizing me,
he hugged me so tight and burst out crying tears I hadn’t seen before. A strong
man I had known had finally broken - for once. This, long, tight and
tear-filled hug was poignant. I was happy to see my old buddy again, but not
happy to see him in this state. In retrospect, our previous meetings were
always marked by my attentive listening and his passionate speaking. He never
ran short of dispensing advice and wisdom, it ran like a continuous river –
always. My soul was always warmed. My memory of our last meeting with him two
months earlier ended with his request to me to marshall his male troops (sons)
for an important meeting. It never came to pass.
So
here I was, staring at what was left of my old buddy. A reduced frame. His eyes
were now deep-seated, retreated inwards with a gaze of fear. Uncertainty.
Emptiness. His right fore and hind limbs useless; his smile an empty shell; his
mouth only left for one function – eating. Eating he only did through
convincing and persuasion. His appetite for food gone. The only point of
conversation was his incompetent left hand – with gestures that no one could
decipher; he nodded and shook his head to questions; he groaned when in pain.
Stroke had cut off his tongue. His legs were restricted to the wheel chair as I
wheeled him out to bathe in the sunrise. My quest to remind him of our memories
was met by a little smile, but not a hearty one. Everything had to be done for
him and to him.
After
twelve days of human, spiritual and medical Endeavour, he was set free with
strict instructions that home-based physiotherapy would put him in good stead
of recovery – to our collective sigh of relief. We did as advised and even took
him for a review after seven days. Some change was noticed when he gained
strength.
It
was this progress that necessitated my decision to return to work. I sought my
old buddy’s permission to leave to which he reluctantly accepted.
Two
days later I arrived at my work station and on the second day at 12:13Hours
came in Getu’s call that lasted 13 Seconds. I hang up. Looked up, the skies
couldn’t open; looked around me – I was alone surrounded by pending tray;
looked behind me and in front of me – walls, walls. Broken. Crushed. Shattered.
Scattered. Distressed. Distraught. Devastated.
12th
June, 2014. 2.00PM, my old buddy had taken his final bow. Quietly. Silently.
Peacefully. But presumably at the wrong time.
You
see, in my community, the time of an elder’s death (my old buddy was one at
72), is very significant. Death after dusk is treated as a “good death” because
the dead had “completed the day’s work”. Death in the middle of the day was
seen as a “death in anger and bitterness”. No wonder even after my old buddy
was pronounced “rested”, no one was permitted to begin mourning or “crying out
loudly” until dusk when an elder would direct so. Well, word went round this
Igara village like a bush fire about the death of the elder statesman; and as
kinsmen and village folk trooped and gathered in his compound, the crowd
swelling, the smell of death hanging around everyone’s heart and throat, every
single soul waited, with abated breath for the bell to ring…
I
embarked on one long, painful, thoughtful and sorrowful journey – seeing off my
old buddy and giving him a permanent and befitting farewell. A farewell that
occurred nine days later – June 21st 2014 culminating to the
critical dates of 21st May, 12th June and 21st
June, 2014 – Stroke. Death. Burial (21. 12. 21).
Questions still linger as hope abound,
Did you die in anger as we kept the bond?
I stand in wonder restless of spirit,
You in the world yonder united in spirit,
Yours a life braver and larger,
Your spirit hovers and always greater.
As I mourn your painful death,
I celebrate your humble life,
Filled with wisdom and counsel,
Discipline and persistence,
Hear then my victory song,
As you rest in peace eternal.
Remain in knowledge brave sentinel,
That yours was an untimely death,
One year ago today,
You broke my heart
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