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Writer's pictureCAFTA Co. Writer

The Ganges

Written By: Freddy Nyezi

 

I can smell the salt in the air. I can feel the sun’s heat on my skin and the sea breeze caressing all the blonde hairs on my forearm that are yet to turn black. There’s a straw in my mouth and apple juice washing my teeth yellow. I can hear the flows and ebbs of the waves, coming forth to call me, leaning back to beckon me. I am too scared to touch the water. The last time I nearly drowned. My life didn’t flash before my eyes though. All I could think of was what a gruesome way it would be to die drowning. Dying in pain scares me but I have always wondered what someone’s last thoughts are to themselves when they are thrashing and writhing in pain and suddenly feel that their time has come. What goes through the mind of someone who can feel the salt water flooding their lungs? When they realise that there's nothing they can do and that kicking and screaming won’t result in any good? Does kicking make you sink faster? Screaming is definitely a risk. When do they disconnect from “Oh my God, I’m gonna die! Please don’t let me die, God!” to “Oh my God. I am going to die.”

I have died a couple of times - in my mind. I have imagined and reimagined every possible death and each one ends with me finding my faith, or returning to God - whichever one you prefer. “God, thank you for the life that you’ve given me. I know that I didn’t live it fully. I am coming back to you with the talents that you gave me, I’m sorry that this is the only change I bring to you. I tried to make the best out of my life, though. I know I could’ve done more - so much more - but I didn’t and I’m sorry. I know I have forsaken you but I hope that you still recognise me.” I am not religious but I wonder if people find their faith when they’re on the precipice or do they just jump into the abyss.

I wonder why dead bodies float. I wonder why I couldn’t float that day, why I can’t float any day. The white of the waves looks like froth at the mouth. I want to go in, even if it’s a shy dip of the toe at first but how can I when the same sand that supposedly holds me is treacherous and schemes with the ocean?

The water whips the beach and the waves are crashing into the shore. They have grown tired of calling to me and are enraged. I am convulsing. I throw my head back and knock a sandcastle behind me. I am catapulting to the kingdom. My grip is tight on the Capri-Sun but I have long since vampirically sucked out its life. The waves are getting violent and I am kicking and screaming and thrashing my body against the ground and writhing and I can’t breathe. I can never tell what the boundary is between the water and the sand. I know that water has a surface too, a meniscus. It’s how some creatures can “walk” on water. Maybe that’s what Jesus did too. Just like how I can’t tell where the water and sand meet, will I ever be able to define the border between life and death - the exact moment when I die? Will I know that I’m dead?

The water’s become too eager. It’s come too far forward and I can feel it washing me off of the sand like stain, or pulling me towards itself. Slowly.

I should’ve listened to my therapist. I’m only 20, I have no business overthinking and now the apple-flavoured Capri-sun is stuck in my throat and I can’t breathe. I would’ve never imagined drowning in my own body. That’s a funny story to tell in heaven. They’ll probably tease me and call me Snow White and maybe they’ll

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