It’s an imagery of phony. Everyone coming to witness the
passing on, of a young man “taken from us too soon”. The crowd is huge. All a
mixture of a froth of rich, the middle class and a bunch of the “waste” of
society. Everyone here to catch a glimpse of a hero, a mentor, a savior that “died for his country”.
I stand at a shade, shadows of old trees without doubt
shedding my body from the glares of strangers who would undress me with their
bare eyes. I bother not to follow the
damn customs, no black dress, no black hat. Am not here to mourn, because like
many here, am here to witness the call of death. Am not at all embarrassed and possibly
I am the only one here who will not be bothered by the pitiful hymns that escort
the man to heaven. I care not. For to me, death is just but a thin line between
it and life.
The frail, dark guy you see near the casket is the Father to
the deceased. Yes, all crumpled up from head to toe with the stench of alcohol.
Around the casket stand four other old men. They are probably younger than they
look, of-course the world of cheap liquor has robbed them of their youthful
blossom. Two or three of them missing their front teeth. Bar fights, bar maids
and cheap brothels being the cause. No one is judging here. It’s a place of
sadness. One of them, gone!
I hate the falseness
of it all though. The pastor’s speech. Probably written and re-edited for two whole weeks.
Every word carefully chosen not to bring out the truth. Its taboo, they believe,
saying bad stuff about the dead. Its taboo. So like fools we all stand still to
hear about the perfect life of the young, rapist, alcoholic bastard; we stand still, to hear words watered with
love and appreciation of the deceased. A good man, a father, a husband, a
friend. I would drown my own soul in my own vomit if that were possible. But I listen…to
words of lies brought to our ears by the cold breeze.
No mention of the cruelty of the dead man, the frightful
nights he raped the village women, the endless children he forcefully fathered
and neglected. His wife seems distressed. One could read the sadness in the
young widow’s face. But somehow, I feel no pity. Still, I think she brought it
to herself. A life of debauchery screams and a distorted face is what she has
to show of a husband she just lost. It’s sad, really, if I had known her
personally, I would have comforted her. Anyway, I remind myself, not my circus,
not my monkey.
After the speech, his children line up to take photos, the
last send off. Emaciated children, doubtless of what all this drama is all
about. Humbly, they take a bow. One could almost feel their mother praying
quietly they don’t take after their father’s footsteps. A father, yes, but just
a pathetic grown child with nothing to show.
They lower the casket and “important” persons pay their
respects. Phewks another one bites the dust, I murmur. It’s been a long time
coming.
Nowadays, they just drop down like grains. They return from
the city with big cars and boils on their faces. In perfumed clothes that cover their treachery;
wife batterers, rapists, murderers,
drunkards…the village is no longer at ease.
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