THE CONTINUUM CALLED LIFE

There is an Arabian story that goes somewhat like this. A man sent his beloved servant on an errand to the market in Mecca one morning. Shortly after he had left, the servant returned, running and in a state of great distress. “Master,” he said, “lend me your fastest horse that I may leave for Medina immediately.” The master, puzzled asked why. “As I approached the stalls in the market this morning, I saw Death and He looked straight at me and pointed menacingly.” The master gave the horse to the servant and wishing him well sent him on his way. Incensed by the actions of Death, the master decided to seek him out and went out to the market. He saw Death by the stalls and stalked up to him. “Why did you scare my servant this morning?” Death looked at him a while then replied, “It was I who was startled to see him here for I have an appointment with him tonight in Medina.” On Saturday morning, I received the news that everyone dreads – a death in the family. My 30 year old cousin, missing since the previous Thursday night had been found in a city mortuary, the victim of a hit-and-run car accident. He is one of the cousins I consider most blessed for my grandfather had chosen to allow him to live with my grandfather for the two years preceding his [my granddad’s] death. So for the two years when my Granddad was 105 to 107 or 107 to 109 years old, depending on which birth certificate you favour, my cousin got to care for him, talk with him, be with him, and in my book, that made him most favoured. Who knows what stories my grandfather, a great orator, told him of his own youth. What wisdom he imparted to this young, gentle, smiling boy. There is a legend in my family that my grandfather chose his time of death, and it is not without evidence. Indeed, his mother before him, my great-grandmother, is said to have been of such character that she had chosen her time of death. Yet my cousin, seems to have died needlessly, recklessly, negligently. I would like to think not. I would like to think that Death, having visited him earlier received the answer, “Listen, I don’t mind coming with you but if I must, then my last night will be a great party night. And make it quick. I don’t want some lingering death or a spectator event.” Perhaps Death, acquiescing [and knowing who my granddad is] gave him a few more hours. So my cousin went out pub crawling, bought his buddies a drink or two, stepped out into the night and said, “I am ready.” I have often heard it said that death is but a gateway, a continuation of what we call life but in another form. That in death, we do not cease to exist, but in fact, unfold into another facet of the continuum that is Life or Existence. Perhaps early Friday morning, my cousin woke up in a strange body, feeling odd and surrounded by bizarre looking beings who were baring what he would later find out are teeth, to the sound of something pleasant and light – laughter and shrieks of joy. Perhaps, he unfolded into another family, in another plane of existence. Of course there is always the version that he went to heaven and there, standing at the gate, he found not St. Peter, but a younger, more vital granddad holding a cane. If that is so, he probably got the ass whooping of his life before my grandma managed to restrain her man. Do not even consider the version that he may be elsewhere because such is the power of our Grandfather, he would probably hunt him down, wherever he is, and give him that ass-whooping before making his live with him [Granddad] just to ensure he does not get into any more mischief. Ah, but these are the stories in my head, stories I create to allay my grief. The undisputed truth is, the spirit that we once called Mburu Waweru, does not live in the body that goes into the ground this week. He is not there. Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. –anon. (c) Renee Ngamau