Stars in a Marathon

I wiped the last drop of warm tears from my now itchy eyes. They had been flowing for hours. Father said to stop crying. “You’ll get down with fever” he would say. His raspy voice pierced my sublime silence. He too was in pain. I could feel it. One couldn’t hide it. Especially at the death of a loved one. That single heartbeat that would never be heard again. 

I turned the tap off. I had left it running while lost in evading thoughts. How free the water flows! If only one could take its form and sail away into nothingness. Away from this numbness and pain. My life was like fiction, everything reminded me of her; the chair she used to sit in, her favorite book, the hibiscus garden she had planted, and her old bag. The house felt empty without her. Even Murphy our grumpy Rottweiler howled for days nonstop. The sweet old woman was gone. Mum was gone.

 Like Stars in a marathon, the preacher man went on as Mum’s casket was slowly lowered into the gaping earth. She had finished her race. Her time was up. But I hate that it was up. Each drop of red sand into the earth reignited the flames of mad anxiety in my fragile heart. I was no longer innocent to the sad things of earth. Death had raped me of joy. 

“Think of the good memories and hold on to them.” Uncle Zack rambled like someone half drunk. He was my runaway uncle and the only memories he has of Mother was of when they were little kids playing in the rain. He had run off to the city after grandpa’s death. He was his mother’s first brother and the eldest. And such he had to take on traditional titles and take control of grandpa’s lands. But he had run away. To the vast city. Into the warm laps of a mistress and a degree in fine arts. Mum and the others called him a weakling.

An efulefu(foolish one). One with no direction in life. One with no star. 

But strange enough, he was someone I wanted to be like. Free from unwanted attachments. Free from traditional captivity. Free to explore the world just like Otika the madman who was eating from a plate of rice at the corner. He munched heavily, crumbs of rice escaping through the sides of his mouth while he scratched his dirty brown hair. 

“Sweetie, sweetie!” Those were the only words he ever spoke. This only but made one wonder who or what was ‘sweetie’. Perhaps his plate of food. Or some love long lost in time. Whatever it was, Otika the madman was to some a wonder to behold. 

Heavy drums began to roll. The traditional dancers trooped out. Their dance was a fusion of soul and frenzy. My uncles joined them. It seemed their mourning had been buried with mother. 

I turned to leave and that was when I saw him. The silhouette amongst the dim evening light. The silhouette I used to know as a father. What was he doing here? How dare he show up after twenty years of leaving us to our fate!

I pushed the elders aside in a swift attempt to catch the silhouette. I yelled “father” with fists clenched and my veins popping. I had reached the silhouette in a single marathon. It wasn't my father. 

I almost fell but was caught by the hands surrounding me. It was when I was seated on the bare floor, no different than Otika the madman, that I realized I hadn't forgiven him. He was living rent-free in my head. As he always did since 20 years ago. 

 Sigh... I turned the tap on once more. My tears had begun to flow again.…… I said to myself “Truth is indeed stranger than fiction”