By Son of loam soil
I would have said my greetings but that is exactly what you don’t say to someone who comes in the middle of the day and shits in your house. Forgive me!
Since that night you croaked, we have been incessantly losing young and ebullient souls. Like the habitual drunk who keeps on coming back for more, you have continued to rein terror and trepidation in homes. Since the night you croaked, laughter has been dry cum empty much like a prolonged cough, the sky has been red and gloomy, food has been tasteless, water has been sour, days have been grim and the silence eternally haunting. How big is your belly? Isn’t it full?
Just recently, I lost a close confidant to your bloody claws. I nearly pulled a Freshly Mwamburi and succumbed to the shamelessness of my tear ducts, letting them reign supreme, while wailing in my first tongue but to what extent? I nearly isolated myself to sulk in my own sorrows but the words of Isaac Asimorov still ring; life is pleasant, death is peaceful. Only the transition is troublesome. The transition is inevitable.
I almost, infact even tried only that my limbs wouldn’t match the spirit of my conviction, to pull a Ferdinand Omanyala and sprint to a universe where no pain exists, only pleasure. But wait, does such a place even exist? My bible records that before Jesus died on the cross in Golgotha, he mustered his fading strength and with finality proclaimed, it is finished; our sins were forgiven. What irredeemable sins have we committed that you pester us uncharacteristically, robbing us of this precious gift-life?
What part of it-is-finished is not clear to you? Who will bury our parents if you keep on blowing their children into oblivion? Who will till the land if you keep on striking lightning to the energetic hands available? Who will tame the animals and gather the harvest you ugly monster? Damn it! Who will hold the candle of our lineages?
On behalf of my generation, I beseech you to spare us. Well, not that we fear death; we only ask for some peace and latitude so that we find something worthy to die for. So that during our burial, men and women, tycoons and paupers, friends and foes will pause and in not so many words say, here lies a man who lived his life so well. He indeed saw, came and conquered.
We still nurse dreams unfulfilled, empires yet to be built, companies yet to be founded, alliances yet to be forged, degrees yet to be acquired and books yet to be written. Not today depression. Not today!
Signed,
Son of loam soil,
Sir.Mango4.
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Mary Karau Ngethe