Hard to let go, Harder to accept

Death has no protocol. It does not ask whether you are ready to go or not, it will not inquire if they are still things you need to do. It does not make appointments and just shows up out of the blue like pimples on the forehead before a big date. Death has no protocol; it does not ask those closest to the person it has come for if he or she is still needed. Just like a thief in the dark night, it snatches and disappears. All that is left are the memories.

As of late sleep has been playing hard to get like a girl from uukwaluudhi, its getting annoying, to the point where going to bed is not worth looking forward to anymore, I haven’t turned in my bed like this since 2011. An image haunts my thoughts, the last image I saw of my brother. He usually slept with his mouth open and that's how he looked, like he was sleeping (I’m told everyone looks like they are sleeping). He looked like he normally looks in his slumber, except for the dent in his forehead, a result of the autopsy. As much as I wouldn't like my job to be examining the dead, can't help but ask "couldn't you be a bit more fucking careful, I know he's dead but at least make it less obvious that you cut his fucking head open". Some say, when the time to look at the deceased's face comes, then it’s your cue to leave the funeral. My friend said the opposite; she was adamant that it was a big part of the mourning process, its as much as saying goodbye as it is accepting that what is done is done. You feel really fucked up after, like you had just had an encounter with a demontor. My cousin’s face went pale, he looks yellow on most days but during my brothers funeral he look as white as I'd ever seen him. Disbelief etched deep into the corners of his face. I had to look, can't rid my mind of the image, but I knew that I had to.

I stayed strong not for myself but for my mother and her sisters. She lost a son and her greatest hope. I can't imagine how unbearably lonely she must feel, she's outlived both her husband and her youngest son. Death is hardest on those left behind, they are left to ponder and carry on, no use bothering the dead for they are at peace. My mother is a very gentle being; my sweet and compassionate side comes from her. She always smiles when she looks at me and I find solace in the fact that even during the hardest time of my life (I'm sure she has seen worse), she still smiled when she saw me. I'm technically the "nkelo" "last born" now, yes even in the most shitty of times, I will always find time to joke, its not a crime.

There are times when my mind does a Usain Bolt and just starts racing like a DVD on fast forward. That’s when my heart starts to sink, I succumb to a feeling of deep regret that I should have paid more attention to him and done more. All the plans he had for his life start flashing across my mind, all his dreams and his plan to finally build something for mom. He felt as though he was the only one who could do it, trust the little ones to have the biggest hearts. It was probably because he was always closer to her and I have always been far off chasing education, first it was a dream, then adventure then a degree. I kept chasing, safe in the knowledge that I had tomorrow. Little brother and I would bond and make up for lost time when I was finally done, the fuckery of the situation is that when I was finally done, he was gone. I had no tomorow, my time with him was up, and perhaps that is why accepting is dragging on and on like Arsenal FC’s trophy drought. The philosophical approach to his passing has helped me find peace, but it does not numb the pain. Losing my brother is like a wound, which no matter how many times you bandage will never heal. That being said, self pity and feeling sorry for myself are getting me nowhere.