Written by Wonga Tsalupondo
Nothing is more endearing than to begin a story with a ‘Once upon a time…’, but not all stories have a delightful beginning, nor end with a happily-ever-after. At least mine doesn’t.
Everything happened so fast – though the ordeal seemed to have lasted for forever and a day. Like it was a long bad dream I couldn’t awaken from. But as soon as they had left, everything seemed to have slowed down. My head – racing like a wild horse – was resting on the bare wooden table, processing what had just happened, and thinking of the aftermath. The house was awfully quiet and still, peaceful even, as if no crime had been committed in it, but Lungani’s silence howled the loudest. Without making any sudden movements, I lifted my head, and with earnest effort I pulled up my pants, and lazily shuffled to where he was laying. When I saw his blank stare into space, what was left of me vanquished in that very moment. I thought he was a goner, until he tilted his head to my direction and a long-dejected tear slid to one side of his face. He reached his hand out to me. I stubbornly stood above him, praying that maybe it would turn out to be a bad dream after all, and I would wake up any second. I closed my eyes and opened them again, and instead of waking up to a cold morning breeze, the shy morning sun, and birds enthusiastically tweeting outside my window, I was welcomed by a dimly lit house, a sultry ambience, a powerful and sour odor crawling up my skin – I felt like a disgrace, and Lungani’s white t-shirt soaked in blood. A crying shame.
I finally gave in and faced my reality, I made my way to his side and sat on my knees, so that I could comfortably rest his head on my lap.
I had his head on my hands, it was heavy, he felt like he was giving in, but I could tell he was fighting to stay alive. Although it was a losing battle. He laboriously tried to keep his eyes open, his breathing was ponderous and shallow, he was in great anguish and there was nothing I could do to make it easy for him. It was the greatest pain I had ever seen. From his droopy eyelids I could read the fear in his eyes. I knew what he was afraid of; I was scared for the both of us. As if he read my mind, he said, with a reedy voice, “You know what scares me the most about death?”
I wanted to say ‘Yes, I do.’ As – in some seemingly distant time now – we have talked about them. Our worst fears. Mine was losing a loved one to the hands of death; his was the dark and mysterious after death. Ironically, we seemed to have conjured both our fears to life. I was losing him, and he was forced to embrace the unknown.
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