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Letter to a Faint
Heart By John Oryem
(Sudan) A condolence sent to Bruce Cook of AuthorMe
on the death of his mother.
Letter to a faint heart
When death comes
To fetch you
She comes unannounced,
Like the vomit of dogs,
And when she comes
The wind keeps blowing
The birds go on singing
And the flowers
Do not hang their heads.
Okot p’ Bitek; Song of Lawino
When tragedy afflicts us, it is another moment of stock-taking in our lives. By the end of the day, one will know exactly how much the Creator has loved us. The precious years spent, friends encountered, pains endured; perhaps, a near-death event in life; are all indications of our touch with whoever is in control.
In Africa, people don’t die. They just pass silently, gracefully into the world of our ancestors. My friend, let me refer to your mum as; the old woman. There were times when you were fed, washed, hypnotized, scorned and told the right things by the old woman. They were spices that colored what you are today.
Since nature tells us that; all what began will end one day, then having heart that accepts is really what we lack as limited beings.
Death was a long journey for my tiny mind until recently. There was a time later in life, I knew, the long journey should be permanent in a way.
Immediately after the farewell, physical isolation with our ancestors begins; first, they are hidden from innocent eyes. Because of the many questions? Raw minds? One was left to find out for himself or herself.
Carcass being poured on the grave, so water, beer, first produce, ceremonial blood from rams must follow.
Whatever we do thereafter, they are under the watchful eyes of our ancestors; immediate or distant. If good luck comes your way, they happen because of them. Should misfortune befall on you, we only have to remind our sleeping ancestors to come to our aid.
As kids, the respect we gave to nature was not for nothing. Shadowy trees, mountains, river banks, delicate creatures and stones bear the traces of our ancestors.
One day Bruce, if you remember the old woman, don’t betray her smiles, courage, determination and kindness she left for you. If you are loved today, something great might have emanated from her large heart.
Gitanjali Ghei; the Indian poet who died at 16 had much to talk to us older people in her book;
The Gitanjali Album.My Mother
She is like a pillar of strength
To, all, each one and sundry
She radiates the warmth
Even when she passes by
She showers the
Blessings through her
Lullaby
The emotions overwhelm her
The tears flow silently
And yet the smile
And blink a message
Of love and understanding
I hold my breath (in pain no doubt)
And look up in amazement
And try my utmost best
And slowly and silently I
Close my eyes; with thine
Expressions to cool my own
I once wondered how it
Thus could be
A frail soul could bear
The brunt of life smilingly
But it seeped through me
Like water through the plant
That no matter what may come
You’ve got to fight the weedlings
For the survival of your young
With sadness weighing heavily
In the precious eyes
That I adore
She creeps silently and softly
Into the little den
Which is my very own
She looks upon me
With love brimming in the eyes
And reaches out to ease me
When fever’s burning me inside
Her eyes
Mirror the reflection of love
The sadness of her withered heart
The pain of gone-by years
And in those eyes
I seek and find
The friendly glow of confidence
That pulls me up
When all else fails
Including the hand of God.
The strong wind blew
The clouds clapped their hands
I shuddered and clung to my
Faith in that hand.
