We are never too young or too old to accept that our loved ones
are gone. It may take days, months or years to accept but one eventually does. I was having a chat with a friend about the recent passing of her
mum and how she has not accepted what happened. I do not blame her at all. This
got me thinking about my own dad and how it took me several years to accept
that he was never coming back.
I have written about him several times
such as Thirteen
years down the road. I did that story as a class assignment and that was
what I needed to accept that he was gone.
I remember this was what happened those
many years ago.
During the December holidays.
We went to grandma's but this time round
our stay took much longer than usual.
I was a very young girl.
Eight going onto nine. My brother was
three going onto four. He hadn't even started school. However, he was to start
in January. We had talked on end about how dad would take him.
One evening in the month of January our aunty
came to grandma's, carried a few thermos flasks and helped us pack as we were
going back home to prepare for school the following day.
I noticed the thermos flasks in her bag.
Something deep inside told me all was not right back at home.
But being very young. I didn't pry aunty to
ask why she was carrying the thermos flasks.
When we got home, it’s not that too far
off from grandma's but you have to use a matatu, I saw a tent outside and my
fears were confirmed that something was not right. We got to the house,
welcomed as usual by mum. I noticed that everyone around us was sad but being
very young I wasn't sure why.
That evening mum together with her sisters
broke the news to us, "Dad has gone to heaven," mum said. Long silence
befell on all of us. I had watched enough movies and gone to a few
'maombolezis' to know what that meant. A sharp pain cut through my heart. Ok! I
don't really know I felt but I can equate it to that.
Mum showed us the picture that was going
to put up in the newspaper as well as the eulogy. I have such a good memory. I
should upload that photo very soon. That night I
must have shared my bed with more than five relatives. Before they came in, I
cried enough tears to fill the river near our home. We live near such wonderful
features, a river and a swamp.
Dad passed on 6th January 1999. The days
dragged on and we got to the burial day. I do not remember who it was but they
did not allow me to see dad. Some reason about being too young. I still
maintain, no one is too young to see his or her dad or mum even in the coffin.
Being dead doesn't mean he stopped being dad. From that day until about a year ago,
I was very bitter about it. Maybe I still am but its ok. I sometimes wish I could
take back the hands of time just too see him one last time.
Life changed. We may not have seen it then
but over the years, it has. It has been both good and bad. Despite all the many
changes life must go on.
