Larger than life

On my late mother’s birthday, I walk into a field along the A48 to admire its poppies. The caress of a muted sun’s rays on my thirsty skin makes me reminisce of my missing younger brother, gentle yet wilful like the wildflower in my hand, and then the damned call comes…my father is gone. Days later, beneath the watchful glow of an African moon, having first endured the intricacies of obtaining a burial order, we take him to rest beside his own mother and father.

How does a man larger than life fit into a mere casket? How does that large wooden box so easily fit into earth’s tiny mouth? How lonely and final that inevitable swallow will be. How bloated the earth’s belly must be, with all our pain and kin; bless all the gravediggers. My own mouth can neither taste nor swallow the offal offered when a beast has fallen, my gut swollen still with tears to be released.

Suddenly! The heavens offer a rancorous roar, as if my father is belly-laughing with God in the sky, and thick clouds gather to weep with us, “…as should happen when a Musaigwa joins our ancestors. His human footprints duly honoured, shall now be erased from this world with pure rainwater that will push his spirit forward to the ocean where other big fish swim.”

Standing still beside him, unable to imagine a life without him, my vision is blurred… unable to process the meaning of death. Of life. Without… my first love. I am… afraid. Mourners circumvent the meeting of eyes, their own recycled grief tucked into clasped hands and tight jaws. Can you hear the melodic shuffle of feet against the sandy loam of Sese, as they pay their respects?

He looks neat and at peace in his new navy suit, crisp white shirt, pink paisley tie and matching pocket square; my other brother’s fine choice. He will now be father to my younger sister and me. I joke privately that father won’t like the laced boots on his feet; he prefers slip-ons. My brother doesn’t laugh – nothing is funny when there were six of us once, and now, only three.