My parents live in a village; Miti-Kenda (Nine Trees), not far from Nairobi but still quite rural. Why, our local shopkeeper sells cooking fat at 5/- per tablespoon! My father ran over our neighbour’s chicken. He caused a such a fuss and erected a sky- high bump made of building stones and a thin layer of soil in protest! I’ve never really seen a road sign for “chicken crossing.” Anyway, it is a wonderful place. Once in every few weeks I go down there for a weekend and in the strong wind characteristic of the place, I am at peace. In the open and endless space, I take walks. I do some thinking. I make decisions. I let my emotions run loose. In the din of dogs barking, chicken squawking and cows lowing, I feel joy; joy that springs from the very pits of my soul and flows out in the form of a huge genuine smile. It always breaks my heart to leave but when I do, I feel re-energised and ready to face the bustle that is this Nairobi.
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| The space that the village provides |
This time round, it was different. There was grief. My sixteen year old neighbour, Mary, committed suicide. She hung herself in her bedroom. She left a very brief note. “I am tired of life,” she had written. That was the second and successful attempt. She had tried to throw herself in front of a truck on the Eastern by-pass. She told her mother she had tried to kill herself but a voice called her name the two times she tried to catapult herself. Of course her mother did not believe her. For some reason, her death has hit me hard. I find myself thinking about her all the time. She was beautiful. That youthful beauty; glowing complexion, shining eyes, healthy cheeks, blossoming curves and long tresses. No, she was not denied permission to go out. I don’t believe she was a woman scorned either. She was not on drugs. Which begs the question, what would make one so young tired of life? Was she depressed? Was she being abused in school? She hated school by the way. Was she pregnant? She had survived two fatal bouts of illness in her childhood; did she survive so that she could later take her own life? I do not understand.
Her mother is still in denial, two weeks after the funeral. She is still in shock. How do I begin to comfort a woman I have never seen tremble for the ten years I have known her? Someone will tell me, “Be there for her.” Easier said than done. She asks me what she did wrong. She tells me she believes she has failed as a mother if she could not see her daughter’s sadness. Then she gets angry. She tells me children are the most ungrateful lot. Then she falls silent and her eyes glisten with tears which never fall beyond her eyelashes. Her lips tremble but she never lets go and breaks down. Tell me, how do I answer such questions? Please tell me, how such can be comforted.
I have always been a firm believer of learning from your experiences and those of your friends. This time round though, I haven’t learnt a thing. If I have, it is yet to become clear. Fact is God has a huge sense of humour. Morbid or funny, you choose. Not from Mary’s death, but over time I have learnt that no matter how painful a situation is, there is a bigger picture. While you fret and fuss over the finer details by asking Him rhetoric questions, He is painting the bigger picture which is always to your benefit. However, we never see it until it comes to pass.
Remember long ago when people used to queue at the hospital for injections? They would be boiled and the nurse would shout, “Next!” If one was scared, they would go to the back of the queue hoping to prolong time before the jab came. Death is pretty much the same. Just like in Final Destination 3, it has its design. It is an eventuality all of us must face. When it says “Next!” you haven’t the option of going to the back of the queue. It will find you. Even if it is suicide. Question is, are we ever ready? Does it ever find us at peace with the things that matter? With ourselves, our loved ones, our Maker? We should be prepared for it but we never are. Such is humanity.
How about those left behind? I like to think of grief and pain as a drum full of water. It is evaporated by heat, fetched cup by little cup, it leaks from the seams and finally it is empty. It is not as heavy as it was before. Only the drum is left and the memory that it was once filled with water. The pain fades with time and all that is left are memories.
I am angry at you Mary but you had your reasons. Death is an escape route very much like alcohol, but you never wake up. We will never see you again. Couldn’t you have at least thought of what your death will do to your mother? I guess you cannot answer these questions. I have the very hard job of forgiving you; it will take time as I try to understand why you did what you did. I hope that you find the peace and joy you were looking for wherever you are. Rest in peace young girl.
