Death Becomes Her
Yes, death came quick and ugly.
From what I hear the sounds she gave was the sign that she was on her way. He lay with her believing they had time to right the wrong. Time ahead to look back with quiet mischief for the benefit of the ones who didn’t witness the worst of it.
Days before she almost died but was told that she could live if only she wasn’t born Nigerian. Well, not exactly in those words but actions speak louder than words.
For me, I have lost relatives to ailments that weren’t that mysterious. It was the disease of the mind that gathers falsehood in order to prepare for the unspeakable. The country that has gold-plated streets leading to diseased huts and running water with specks of feces — has taken the ones I love with swooping mannerisms that aren’t questionable.
I don’t need to pass the quiz. I get it. The ones that don’t have a clue die with dazed expressions as the breath they never owned evacuates to make room for another spirit released without permission.
I got the call — and unlike the other ones — I actually had a gauge of why and how. The timeline so tragically rehashed and my heart clenching the tears from falling because what’s the fucking point?
There will be more where that came from.
Incidentally, their fate will mirror mine. The way things are shaping up — if I don’t get the hell out of this place — I will also be found on a heap of a demise that was played out in private but exposed with frenzied bitterness.
Turns out being Nigerian is just the same as being an abandoned American who has no address and roams around trying to prove why being American meant so much when being Nigerian was nothing.
The fairytales were detrimental but I can’t deny how relevant the snowflakes with harmful content fell into the present reconciliation of how I receive the bad news that never faded away. I welcome the reason why she died and how it could have been prevented if only she had been lucky.
I can’t wait to meet the maker or the blackness that will return me to whence I came before I was blessed with the token of being accepted into the society of humans that never really mastered the art of living.
She didn’t see it coming.
My story will not be the same. It won’t be swift and unforgiving. It won’t leave the man who loved her paralyzed with disbelief. It won’t leave the kids who needed her — woefully disabled.
I will be sprawled in unrecognizable fashion as the American tries to finesse the Nigerian into accepting the fact that death doesn’t discriminate.
Leave your eyes open and don’t tamper with the evidence. Passports prove the why and the where but death becomes you.
No matter what.