Dying young

It happened again. Another young and vibrant person is gone. She was just 25, armed with her dreams and hope for a better tomorrow. I heard she was the one the whole family was banking on to achieve something and maybe take them out of the neighbourhood. Now, they have to talk about her in low voices, addressing her in the past tense. Sigh, it is hard. What can a mere man do? Who can tell who is next? We can only hope it does not happen to us. But it will happen anyway; death is surer than taxes.

I remember the day the death that changed my entire life occurred. It was a gloomy Thursday. I went inside the house and noticed everything was unusually silent. I just knew this was the end. I knew it was going to happen anyway, but I was shocked with the new reality. How come all the loud and painful breathing is gone? How come she is no longer shaking? In a split second, I saw everything crumble before my young eyes. I just knew nothing would be the same after that. How could it be?

In a few hours time, there was a coffin, -a coffin from those who never cared when she was sick or alive, but they could bring a coffin hours after she died, humans could be amazing, you know? In a short while, she was dressed for her final journey, and then I had to do the dust for dust rites. I just knew things were never going to return to normal.

All through the rest of that day, I witnessed a crowd I had never encountered in my house, and even after that. People I had never seen all my life came around with the normal stories of how good my mum was, how God loves us, how they cared and different reasons why we shouldn’t cry too much. There was more than enough stories of how time heals, countless stories of how God knows best. I was a little bit relieved. For the very first time, our compound was filled up that day. It seemed like we were having a feast. A sad feast, maybe.

Fast forward to almost 14 years later. I don’t know how much has changed from that gloomy Thursday. But here I am, having one of those gloomy nights. I sat on my bed, while everywhere was silent (perfect for me), while my mind was roaming. I asked myself what would have been different if mum was here with me. I wish I could reach out to her. I know she is definitely someone I can pour out my insecurities to. One I can share these new fears with. Maybe my head would have been a little lighter, maybe I wouldn’t have to be thinking about so much stuff, maybe I would have been living differently, feeling some other manner, maybe, maybe, just maybe. But it is what it is. I can only imagine. Nothing more substantial than mere thoughts.
 
I stood up and went to turn the lights and fan off. I felt they were disturbing me. The standing fan felt so loud, I just didn’t want any noise. I returned to sit on my bed, and I was out of my element. I was no longer the merry Kareem, no longer the playful Kareem, no longer "feeling like a man", no strength, nothing. I just felt fully vulnerable. I felt the tears forming, those tears hidden in my new personality. I didn’t try to stop them, it had been long overdue. I broke down and let the tears flow however they wished. In that moment, I travel back in time to those helpless childhood days, those super vulnerable times, those traumatic years that still give me PTSD.

I could hear the voices in my head again, loud and clear, "I never want to see you around my children anymore, you are possessed and I won’t want my children to be the same." "Confess, admit you are a wizard, admit you fly to meetings at night, stop denying”, "If you are pained, go and call your mother to come and fight me," "let’s see how far you will go." you are.. you are,you can’t amount to anything good, emotional scars. Well, I acknowledge that I cannot really be psychologically or emotionally balanced in the near future, but I am grateful for growth and the hard lessons. I thought they said "Time heals." I got angry a bit. Well done, boss death. I just knew for certain that those things wouldn’t have been said to my mum’s face by anyone. But then, the iroko has fallen, the termites can feast. She died young, leaving her little kids to the care of the world.

Death really do change a lot of things. I wonder who is to blame. Who can make a difference? Maybe people can be more compassionate and considerate in the society, maybe God can fix things, but it is probably millions of years since the first man died and nothing has changed.

I had a discussion with a Muslim friend and asked him what Islam says about dying young or before one’s time. He was like, "There is nothing like the wrong time as everything was ordained by God." And it follows from this that we ought not to grieve over the dead. It is useless crying because God appointed it, and we may even be trying to claim God is imperfect by being sorrowful when we should take such normally, that could amount to challenging God.

I was confused and didn’t know what to feel. This means a mother dying at childbirth is ordained, if one dies while struggling to achieve, it is ordained. If parents die and leave their children, it is cool. God ordained it. I really beg to differ. This shouldn’t be destiny. My mind was roaming, asking a thousand and one questions, even though it was a little bit scary thing for me to do. I mean, why do I have to struggle, hope and dream if these dreams were never meant to come true anyway? Maybe it is fair, just maybe. I never can tell, but I can tell I wouldn’t want to live this way if I had a choice.

As a Christian, it is not really different, and it is hard to accept too. The doctrine is "rejoice, it is heaven gaining a soldier" (I thought there should be soldiers enough in heaven), or “God knows best”. Other times, it is that everything happens for a reason, even if I still can’t fathom why some things happen the way they do. Maybe it wasn’t for me to understand, just maybe. Some say, "rejoice, we will meet again on the resurrection morning." My mind wanders and I wonder, what if those do not exist? What if there is no resurrection? What if? What if? But then, that is against my faith as a Christian. I mean, heaven is appealing—an escape from this harsh world, you cop? Living is hell. But what if it still doesn’t exist? What if we just hope for it? Well, maybe the hoping makes us feel better.

But then, let’s not deviate. How do all those "promises" fill the vacuum such deaths create? I understand that it is easy to tell the grieving person not to weep, but to be strong.

However, it is different when it gets so close to us. Then we realize that those motivational talks may not be effective after all. How do you convince a widow who laboured to send her only child through school, when that child ends up dying after working for a month? I really do not know. What does telling a grieving person to pray change? What effect does it have? Maybe hope, maybe satisfaction? Or could it be acceptance of the fact that it is permanent? resignation? But I doubt if they still won’t stay up at night thinking about those what ifs, I wonder they if they wouldn’t miss their loved ones, maybe it is just me, maybe I am a little bit too emotional.

At the end of the day, I don’t want to die young and I remain a Christian and a human, lost on planet earth, still not finding answers to all those questions lingering in my mind.