The black truths were all lies.
distortion.

‘Teach her to understand that the truth is always in the parts left unsaid. Teach her to hear, but more importantly, to listen. To listen to the message in the songs of birds, the whisperings of the wind and the silent sayings of ghosts”
- “Prayers for Susannah” [1968].
All I remember is black. Black women, black men. Black dresses, black suits; two piece, three piece suits, two, three grand apiece. Black cars and black ties, black watches and black shoes, everything in black.
I believe that there are two ways we react to loss; an emotional reaction, one in which we break down and cry and cry and scream from the rooftops. Like the wife of Job, we just want to curse God and die. It is a heart wrenching thing, a draining process. On the other hand, there is the detached reaction which makes you a ghost, watching and observing yourself and your reactions from outside your body. At this point, all your emotions are like light breeze, you barely feel it but you are very much aware of their presence. You go through life like a zombie, going through the motions without actually participating.
The black men and women in their black clothing carried black hymnals and the songs written to glorify God and soothe the bereaved became dirges, making their sad ways to the heavens.
I was a zombie. Detached from the world the moment I read that letter. I cannot forget the way my heart stopped for a few seconds and how goosebumps grew at an astonishing rate under my shirt sleeves. There was a lump in my throat and I could not speak. Images flooded my head, a documentary of our lives playing in the theatre that was my memory. I looked towards Karo, who delivered the letter and back to the letter. It was such a Father thing to do, you know? Have a letter delivered instead of a simple text or call. The letterhead stood in big, bold, black letters. The law offices of Madueke and Madueke. I was supposed to be the last name, supposed to fulfill Father’s wishes but-
The black people held black microphones and said black words about how they loved you and how they wished you were still around to spread light and cheer them up when they were down like you were some sort of court jester.
Dead, huh? Big, ol’ Nathaniel lying down, eyes closed, heart closed forever? Wham-bam, put the dead hooker in the trunk of your car and thank you ma’am. Thank you for your service to humanity, Nate but all good things come to an end and that includes you. In the days that followed the receipt of the letter, I remembered all the conversations we had about the most random of topics, I remembered the way your eyelids shook when you were upset or the way your laughter rang high and loud like church bells. I remember how you hated mother for leaving us all those years ago.
The black people had eyes that were all black without whites and these eyes had one black truth; that everything they said was a black lie and they could not wait to leave that place and go back to their lives. It was sad, yeah, but the show must go on.
I am still a zombie and I do not think I can ever go back. Nobody knew me like you did, nobody knew you like I did. “Did”. You are past tense now. I never thought this would happen. I am a zombie with feelings. Feelings of regret, pain, sadness and anger. Anger at life for being so hard, at Father for pitting us against each other, at Mother for showing us how to hate, at you for being so loving. At myself for not reciprocating your affections. For being so blind, for letting the bitterness control me. But regret is a fucking useless emotion, isn’t it?
The headstone looked black too [or was that gray?] and the black letters stood out. The year of your birth, the year of your death. Telling anyone who cared that you were a great father, son and friend. Nobody cared that you were a brother. The black letters pulling me, drawing me into a black hole.
The pain is not what I expected it to be. The pain is white. A bright, white light that hurts the eyes and my chest. It does not bang on the door constantly but knocks quietly at two in the morning when I think the worst is behind me. The pain is not irrational and all encompassing. I would have liked that. Instead, it shines its brilliant light on the muddled, dark memories, on the things that have been hidden for years.
The coffin looked black, although the funeral master swore on his grandmother’s breasts that it was brown. I heard you calling from it in a clear, soft voice. I know I heard you calling from the grave.
I saw Father last week, and I talked to Mother on the phone. I said I was sorry, she said she was sorry and he grunted on the phone like he always does. There are three names on the office door now, I resume on Monday. Tomorrow, I go shopping. Out with the t-shirts and in with the dress shirts and suits and shoes and ties and cufflinks. All black, of course.
A blanket has been placed on my soul. It is not tight enough to suffocate me but it is heavy enough for me to feel its dark presence. As I lie down at night, as I wake in the morning, the features of my life turn from a clear picture to seriously blurred images. Distortion rules my life. The women in black do not feel my pain, the men in black cannot understand this darkness. My heart is black and my soul is-
My soul is black.
