Back in Kakamega, in Shirere, we had this Panasonic radio where Omuga Kabisae would take over KBC Radio, Idhaa Ya Taifa, and his voice would bounce against the red oxide floor, smelling like a damp handkerchief and onto the off-white with grey hues that gives the walls “character” (or so we thought) and into my ear: Inayofuata ni matangazo maalum, pamoja na ya vifo. Kifo chatangwaza cha Mzee… If Death had a voice, it would sound exactly like Omuga Kabisae. It is often said that people from my clan live long. My grandpa is 92, weakened with age and the life leaking from him, but still alive; his brother is 90, the rest 80-something. I’ve maintained I wanted to go out when I am 70-something, or when I lose my erection, whichever comes first.
Our earliest death was my Uncle R. Always he’d driven himself hard, a life of bricks on his back, drinking when he was not working, drinking while he was working, drinking like it was working. I’d avoided that vice, or at least managed it, because somewhere I’d read that God don’t mind you having a vice. He just don’t want you to abuse it. Uncle R had had a few doubles of something good and was not feeling too unhappy and he was rather disappointed when he met death crossing the road, and not more bottles of that good something as the liquor had been promising him if he made it to the other side of the road. My people believe that death is only a curtain; when people die, they hover around on the other side, watching us, screaming at us, pointing at the potholes of life. I still see Uncle R, usually after the third or fourth bottle.
When my mother got sick, and wasn’t getting better—bones aching, and headaches that tossed her mind from one shore to another—I hadn’t been hot on doctors, so I tried to do good to put off as long as possible her appointment with her creator. I’d be in church every week. Sent money to the poor. Didn’t ask for change in matatus, or paid for the one sat next to me, even if he was a man, even then. Didn’t say mean words to people I should have said mean words to. Trying to banish impure thoughts. Didn’t that kind of goodmanshit count for something? I was trading with God, perhaps even bribing him, but God was not impressed. St Peter son of Jonah, was not budging; the appointment had been made, my mother’s number was up.
Back in Shirere, the compound—family cemetery really—has more tombstones now, and I’ve picked my spot where the ground whispered that it would be amenable to receiving me when my time comes, right next to the gate, right next to a sibling, dead because of this or dead because of that or dead of just not having been born with enough life. Being Luhya and all, I’d want a disco matanga, I’d want a full moon, maybe an eclipse too, nothing too dramatic, and an AI’d Omuga Kabisae rolling off sweet nothings about my going too soon, despite being 70-something. I’d have decided I’ve had enough. My life would have come to an end. And God would lick the tip of His forefinger and turn the page. Ashes to ashes. Dust to Shirere dust.
