My friend must have thought something is wrong wif me.
That I’m wired awkwardly, weird like that.
Ok, I told her I write better when I’m sad.
She took a long slow breathe, and hmmmmmm.
She obviously couldn’t connect with that. Absolutely couldn’t relate.
That’s rather strange she must’ve thought deeply.
‘Is this guy alright ?’
That’s exactly how it works for me.
Sadness reconfigures me. Focuses me rightly. Gives me direction and vision.
Sets me on track, the right track.
Like a phone reset.
I recall the aftermath of my Mama’s passage.
Between the day of her demise and burial were less than a dozen days – 10 days.
The saddest, longest one dozen less two days in my life.
To say I was devastated is to say the least. Her passage wasn’t in the least expected.
Yeah, she was sick and hospitalised. But she was also recovering and talks of her discharge were echoing the walls of the hospital.
Then the unthinkable happened.
She passed. Crossed over. Left us.
At that point, I knew how so special a Mama she had been and how so much I was going to miss her.
Those thoughts refused to depart from me. They stuck deeply to the bottom of my soul.
I walked, woke, slept, ate and did just one thing – Deep thoughts about my Mama.
That was the stage of my life I wrote most intensely.
The time I wrote most very seriously too.
Humourless, no jokes. Just the loving thoughts of the good times I remembered about her.
The struggles. The victories. The nearlies. Close misses.
Virtually everything and indeed anything.
As the weeks and months rolled by, I wrote and sketched and planned as well as scanning photos of her.
A book was in the works I told myself.
A befitting one too.
I would wake in the dead of night. I would drop my cutlery in the middle of a meal, I would park my car in a corner of a street or even on a sidelane on the expressway, just to quickly put down a line or a thought.
Then slowly and surely, I settled. I got better and better. I was healing.
I wasn’t grieving again.
Then I could write no more.
I could live again, life goes on.
It then struck me – I had stopped writing.
I wasn’t pouring out my details about her as much as I would’ve loved.
I infact stopped.
I looked back recently, and realised six years have rolled by and I’m still very far from a finished work.
Time sure heal wounds.
The sad truth is – I would rather be happy, but I do wanna write too.
Write about my Mama.
“You always was a black queen, Mama.
There’s no way I can pay you back.
But the plan is to show you that I understand.
You are appreciated.”
– Tupac Shakur (Dear Mama)
Ain’t a women alive that can take my Mama’s place.
To live in the hearts of those you love is not to die.
We don’t die . . . We multiply.
Rest in Peace Mama !