In my Expectation, I wrote that a Muslim friend approached me and invited me to be a Muslim. He challenged me that since God had a purpose first in my life and in giving me a Muslim name, then I should think seriously about my destiny and spiritual path. I wrote that I had told him that my real name was Salem and not Salim and that I will delve deeper into the sacred texts of Islam and discover truth. Islam and Christianity have a sizeable points of connection. Their texts talk about a supreme being, the creation, the prophets and God’s redeeming acts. Their point of departure is in the issue of Jesus Christ; whether He is a prophet or Son of God; Mary and whether she is the Mother of God; the Holy Trinity and many other things.
Last year, on April, I lost my paternal Uncle. He drowned in the Zambezi River in Zambia while on photojournalism duty to cover the annual kuomboka dance. This year my Aunt succumbed to illness and passed on. Since there was no pastor nor priest around, I said the farewell prayers before it was dust to dust, ashes to ashes. This year, too, more than one hundred passengers aboard a KQ flight perished in Douala, Cameroon. Last year, Kenya mourned prominent personalities who met their deaths at Marsabit. The list is endless.
Death remains a mystery. It befuddles the human mind. When it strikes, man is forced to think about it; sometimes it evokes resentment and disgust but most of the times even the most violent and uncaring of men in our midst bend under the weight of a death of a loved one or friend.
Questions abound. For example, what happens to our loved ones when they die? Do they suffer where they have gone to? Are they watching over us from wherever they are? Will we ever see our loved ones again when they die? These are very difficult questions. These are questions, though provided in the Bible, don’t appear to be instant, conclusive and satisfying to a bereft family.
As the casket bearing the remains of my uncle was lowered six feet under and the red Kitale soil covered it to form a mound, I stood beside the grave tear-filled. He had introduced me to poetry, to screenwriting, to aspects of travel writing. He had taught me simplicity. He had encouraged me always.His heart was always big for me. As I saw the mound and the flowers and realized that he was no more, I choked in emotion. It was as if there was a finality. I remember asking myself: Will Jack rise again or he’s dust for good?
As the mourners sang Till we meet, I realized the magnanimity of my loss. Death was a painful reality. Life after death was somehow far-fetched. But as I stood there, I wondered why I was not celebrating yet God speaks in Isaiah 26:19 as thus: Yet we have this assurance: Those who belong to God will live, their bodies will rise again! Didn’t God speak in Psalm 37:29 saying: The godly will inherit the land and will live there forever? Wasn’t it in 1st Corinthians 15:26 that it is written: And the last enemy to be destroyed is death?
It was a battle between the grim reality of death and the encouraging Biblical texts on life Hereafter.
My turmoil was justified. For Jesus, at the death of his friend Lazarus, “groaned in the spirit and became troubled’’. Then Jesus wept (John 11:33,35). Even though Jesus knew that something wonderful was about to happen, still he felt the pain and sorrow that death brings.
On a Leadership Seminar held a month ago in the University, the speaker, Mr. Lincoln, asked the question: When you do die, what do you want to be remembered for? For a flash, I visualised a coffin bearing my remains placed near my grave. I visualised mourners around my coffin. How would I want my Eulogy read that will speak well about my deeds without exaggeration? How would I want my funeral to be as a great moment of loss for humanity? What would I have done that people will really miss me for?
Perhaps if there is a phenomenon that panel-beats Christians in godly way then it is the reality of death. When people cry during funerals for their loved ones perhaps their cry is out of fear of the unknown, uncertainty and anxiety. They cry for their souls.
Every time I hear of death of someone, I also think of my own death. Will I drown? Will I be shot? Will I be poisoned? Will I die of old age or in sleep? The possibilities are endless. It can happen any day, any time and anywhere. It can happen.
That is why I am writing my own story about my death. Currently, I am piecing together the untold story about myself, some bad and some good. I want to reveal myself. I am planning about my death. I despise those who will stand before my coffin and say, ‘Salem couldn’t hurt a fly’. Equally too, I will detest those who will roll their bodies on dusty soil as if heaven would have broken loose. I would love my graduation picture be strategically placed during my funeral. Then a beautiful poem be recited by a cheery voice, not a shrill one. My death should be a celebration of the joy of my life, not sullen and sad moment of sobbing and tears. Every time I get inspiration, I write about my death. It is a serious affair. Sometimes the stories are interspersed with beautiful lines of poetry. My belief that our lives are specimens of history is firm. For those who might want to trace our lives, consideration should be given to them to do so between covers of books and not scattered pieces of information from the forgetful human mind.
Intellectually, the reality of death perhaps inspired me to write a poem like this that I called My Deathwish:
If I die, God forbid,
Buy me a coffin
The model of a statute
Dress me up in my black-suit
And adorn me with my wig
Get that portrait of me before Law Courts
Enlarge it and place it on my coffin
Tell mourners to hurl themselves to courts
In solidarity with me
Those briefs, files, reports and cases
Burn them
And blow their ashes to the four winds
Then donate the office to my Brother Judge
Play that video-taped clip
Of me, death-row convict and the press
After scarring court tussle
That threw me to the limelight
Don’t play the dramatic clip
That saw me squeeze
Two big balls off tears
In Milimani Commercial Courts
When you lower me six feet under
Don’t throw clods
Instead throw folded papers
Of my Faculty of Law Exams
Then cover me with
The dry filth of earth
CONCLUSION
So far, I have narrated my personal take about death. Intertwined with those were Biblical texts about death and hope that Christians are to have after death of their loved ones. Hebrews 9:27 says, ‘…it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgement.’ Therefore, my paternal Uncle had to die because he was appointed to die. A friend once told me that the beauty or ugliness of waking up every morning is that on each waking we get closer and closer to our deaths. But this should not frighten us. No man is righteous. We are told in Isaiah 64:6 that: ‘But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousness are as filthy rags, and we all do fade as a leaf; and all our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away’. Therefore, we should seek consolation that despite our frailties but if we still remain steadfast to the Lord then death should come as a door to the welcome paradise. In John 11:11 we are told that the dead are at rest; they do not suffer. For me therefore, Jack is at rest.
I must admit that death still remains a fundamental theme; a fundamental theme because like a classic it somehow manages to retain its ‘allure’ and ‘originality’. It always remains new as it strikes raising the same old questions but always on a different level and circumstances.
One thing I am sure about is that one day I will die. As to when exactly, only the Good Lord can tell. As I sometimes peruse the obituary pages and get inundated with faces of dead ones and read their stories, I get the reality that death is real and real is their relatives’ and friends’ losses.
Meanwhile, as I live, I try to use my death as a yardstick to my Christianity. It should guide me. And when my creative self rejuvenates as it does from time to time, I should think and write about death—my own death.
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