O Death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory?

 

He said as a people we must have more respect for death; that in the country he rules he will make sure people don't take death too lightly. Pg. 125, 1st Para-Songs of Enchantment, Ben Okri

————–(I still believe this was an expression of deep fear)

Death still stings, even for the Christian and many times we can never explain the pain, fear and the anguish coupled with a mix of anger and grief that we feel when our loved ones pass on.  Last weekend was particularly a difficult one. I had plans to visit with my sick uncle and mom kept making it sound so urgent that I had fears that Friday night would be a solid night for him. I had just come from another trip and my body feeling limb, I made a call to my elder sister and she shared my faith that God would heal uncle, somehow miraculously. I prayed and felt some peace, then slept with a resolve that I will be out by daybreak to the hospital. Funny, mom had said I should head straight home as they figured with his deteriorating state, he would not breathe an extra minute.

Am known to display extreme positivism, maybe more of stubborn faith but the ray of hope was flickered…! He had his oxygen mask off, could talk, recognize me even! BUT could hardly feed. Uncle had only some linen draped around him and I thought he needed to have some fresh air. Mom explained that he maintained that as the hospital would not accord him proper nursing care, he also didn’t require their clothes on. Okay!

During the evening visiting hour, he ate some watermelon, drank some yoghurt and some water too. We talked a little more and I must say I felt hopeful (well, I was the only one whose hope seemed afloat). So we prayed and left him in God’s hands. I overheard my aunty telling him to stay connected to God and forgive everyone and…. Yikes! But we prayed aunty…No, Nka, I know but …

Late that night, I had a short conversation with dad and as much as I could never fault God, I still didn’t understand His mind in dealing with us mortals. So why couldn’t he heal my uncle. He’s too young to die..I was damn mad when shosh passed on at 72 but uncle!…and my dad just left me alone…probably logic would not prevail here.

I am glad I saw him. I am grateful to God we spoke last Saturday. Because on Sunday night, he went to be with the Lord. Funny, my brother tried calling me at midnight and he felt I was a tough cookie to handle bad news. NOT. But I got the sense when I broke the news to my elder sister on Monday. I still regret that I told her.

I can never understand why death is. I can never comprehend why loved ones depart. I can never understand the conquest of death. I can never understand the mysteries surrounding life after death…except the hope in glory. That beyond the veil, we rest in Him. Uncle was a church minister. He taught me a bit in Sunday school. He loved singing. I remember he taught choir, of which mother was a member when we were little kids. As much as I really wanted him to live long, free from pain and disease, I know God has healed him. He has healed him eternally.

My mind has this week tried to figure out what’s happening to my cousins. The many questions in their minds and perhaps the struggle to understand why their father had to be taken away. Maybe one day, God who gives life, will in His sovereignty answer them. I remembered the story of H.G Spafford and here goes:

Horatio G. Spafford and his wife, Anna, were pretty well-known in 1860’s Chicago. And this was not just because of Horatio’s legal career and business endeavors. The Spaffords were also prominent supporters and close friends of D.L. Moody, the famous preacher. In 1870, however, things started to go wrong. TheSpaffords’ only son was killed by scarlet fever at the age of four. A year later, it was fire rather than fever that struck. Horatio had invested heavily in real estate on the shores of Lake Michigan. In 1871, every one of these holdings waswiped out by the great Chicago Fire.

Aware of the toll that these disasters had taken on the family, Horatio decided to take his wife and four daughters on a holiday to England. And, not only did they need the rest — DL Moody needed the help. He was traveling around Britain on one of his great evangelistic campaigns. Horatio and Anna planned to join Moody in late 1873. And so, the Spaffords traveled to New York in November, from where they were to catch the French steamer ‘Ville de Havre’ across the Atlantic. Yet just before they set sail, a last-minute business development forced Horatio to delay. Not wanting to ruin the family holiday, Spafford persuaded his family to go as planned.

He would follow on later. With this decided, Anna and her four daughters sailed East to Europe while Spafford returned West to Chicago. Just nine days later, Spafford received a telegram from his wife in Wales. It read: “Saved alone.”

On November 2nd 1873, the ‘Ville de Havre’ had collided with ‘The Lochearn’, an English vessel. It sank in only 12 minutes, claiming the lives of 226 people. Anna Spafford had stood bravely on the deck, with her daughters Annie, Maggie, Bessie and Tanetta clinging desperately to her. Her last memory had been of her baby being torn violently from her arms by the force of the waters. Anna was only saved from the fate of her daughters by a plank which floated beneath her unconscious body and propped her up. When the survivors of the wreck had been rescued, Mrs. Spafford’s first reaction was one of complete despair. Then she heard a voice speak to her, “You were spared for a purpose.” And she immediately recalled the words of a friend, “It’s easy to be grateful and good when you have so much, but take care that you are not a fair-weather friend to God.”

Upon hearing the terrible news, Horatio Spafford boarded the next ship out of New York to join his bereaved wife. Bertha Spafford (the fifth daughter of Horatio and Anna born later) explained that during her father’s voyage, the captain of the ship had called him to the bridge. “A careful reckoning has been made”, he said, “and I believe we are now passing the place where the de Havre was wrecked. The water is three miles deep.” Horatio then returned to his cabin and penned the lyrics of his great hymn.

The words which Spafford wrote that day come from 2 Kings 4:26. They echo the response of the Shunammite woman to the sudden death of her only child. Though we are told “her soul is vexed within her”, she still maintains that ‘It is well.” And Spafford’s song reveals a man whose trust in the Lord is as unwavering as hers was.

 When peace like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

As we lay uncle to rest, I don’t have much faith as the Spafford’s but I know it is well with us.

And as much as I know it is hard to outwit death for we are mortals…we can twist death’s conquering hand if you continually live in your posterity….Rest in Peace dear Uncle…we will live with your memory and the lasting impact you had on our lives.

I remember that you had a fruit orchard that however ripe “overipe” the fruits were, you could never let us trespass…the punishment meted was legendary. That there were even grapes (and the closest we could come to them was when you were demonstrating to us John Chapter 15–Jesus is the true Vine). Did you at any one time say that particular kind was only found in Israel? Ahem! At one time since you could never let us climb the tall fig tree, you fell down some 20 feet as you plucked them for us.

I remember wondering as a Sunday school girl why your prayers always began with the …”God of Abraham, Isaac and Sarah”…I thought it was because your of your children Isaac and Sarah…and my hopes were always shattered that you never said…”the God of Nkatha”

I remember a farm hand once joking that everyone fears to die…”even you, as much as you were a church minister”. I don’t know whether you feared to die as all of us but aren’t we all mere mortals?

My brothers and I (them known to give people funny nicknames) had a coded nickname that even mum adopted in reference to you.  I shudder to think that my little brother who you always referred to as “uncle” will have to face the reality that you are no more. He is the only one who had “rights” to “lifts” in your car.

Till we meet again, In the city yonder…R.I.P Uncle. Am only happy to know just as you lived in the Lord, You also died in Him.

WE are the ones…

WE are the ones WE have been waiting for!

BooksRant: The African Story

I get into a Nakumatt store through an upper floor entry, which almost directly ushers me to Books First. Am here to pick some utilities, something I lazily choose to do after getting disappointed at my voting station. I had a couple hours off to participate in the primaries but duh! It wasn’t to be. Savoring the rare window of opportunity to be out of office early, I look at the books.

It’s been in my mind to expand my collection and buy books off bookshelves and for once stop scavenging the streets of Nairobi for used books. Don’t blame an avid reader. I can read 2 books in a week and hence most affordable to read off the dusty streets, no?

So I look at the Bios section. A scan through and favourite African Authors line up my thought; Chimamanda’s half of a Yellow Sun, Purple Hibiscus…etc. Am particularly looking at no title but could use a good read. So almost declining the assistance of the book attendant, I finally oblige after my eyes start playing me. So, I need Chinua Achebe’s latest book, the country: A personal account of the Biafra. The guy disappoints me. But it his latest, how am l supposed to understand? No Ma’am, could you try Westgate. Maya Angelou’s? Nothing. Okay, I move on. Chimamanda? You mean Ngozi, he quips? Yes, I respond determinedly. Am sorry but we hardly have African writers. We moved that collection to Westgate.

E’cuse me! But this is Africa. I don’t think anyone writes our story better. And where do I go, to read the African story? I scan through the shelves and see a book I have been meaning to get. Yes, I get nothing of what smitta writes in the pulse magazine but I read him in other columns and yes, I need to read the 60page something of Princess Adhis and the Coco Naija Broda. I look at the artistic impression at the cover page. Bloody. I have looked at the review before but I determine I don’t want to add it to my collection now. Something leaps at the thought of winning a 20K worth book voucher. A snap back to reality. This can wait. I am lost in my thoughts again. I remember this day I had brunch with my buddy Jimmy at dancing spoon. As I waited for him, some figure walks in. A very rugged look. I could recognize that as the author of Princess Adhis. Can’t recall what else was on his hands but I remember seeing this big book. Probably 700pages or more. Then my mind shifts to his good writing. Then to the vanity bloggers, whose only content they read is not a book but vain thoughts written by other bloggers. I am one of them. I am fascinated. Good writers must be good readers. Is it poetry, that book? I got this nudge to walk over and say “Hey, I either know you or you must be that guy I read in some weekend magazine”. So what, just to let you wow in case I mistook your identity, that guy writes well. Anyhow, the plot doesn’t go far. My mind humors me; I kid you not.

I then shift my eyes on the stack of books still at bios. Then I remember a special friend who can only stand philosophy books. And back to the attendant, I seek help with philosophical reads. He’s got none. So what do you stock here? Mythological books? Books on quantum physics? To be honest, am secretly glad there was no philosophical read because I could have a huge dent on my pocket. I make a mental note, that when I visit Westgate, and probably with my 20K book voucher, he will get something to philosophically read. Then, oh my! Books always win me over. I see Ben Okri. Quite a collection. How do I resist? The reviews of the winner of the booker’s prize; The Famished Road is great though am yet to read it. I convince myself that the price will send me to the right section; Bata to get my 99bob warmers and take off. It’s not meant to be. It’s Songs of enchantment. Flip to the catalogue. Dang!
I carry the book and secretly hope that the card swiping will not work. That it’s one of those days the “system is down”. Not meant to be. Anyhow, there is a reason why I will guard my books more than my purse. And I make a mental note that unless you are my special friend, you must leave a deposit before I can give away any of my books. That’s a caveat. The exemption clause is on books purchased at the dusty street bookshop. I get them at 100 bob for your asking.

I flip the book, read the epilogue and yes, am reading the adventures of Azaro. The spirit-child living in a Nigerian poor village with his poor parents. And they go beyond songs of enchantment. This is the spirit of African soul. The disclaimer is that if you have a morbid fear of demons, and ghosts and the recent DARK FORCES, you can’t stand reading this book. Not at night. Not when alone. Something will tap your feet. You will see things and they are not holy. Your water will turn into soup. Your head will grow bigger at night. The forest will sing at night. You will mutate. Too much bold imagination on the part of Okri.

I laugh. More of a curvy smile too. No, a smiley grin. And am glad am reading an African story. A beautiful story. A story penned by an African soul. That’s the beauty. The witches riding on broomsticks in Malawi. The frequent night runner in Bomachoge. The witch who left some eggs at your doorstep hoping that you will ‘jump gun’ and go berserk. The tales of Mutomo, that you can leave a goat grazing and no one will touch it. The hawking of Kamuti in the market. The famed ones from Tanga. Huh! Haunting.

That’s part of the African story. Dark forces that seem to outdo each other. More like the land of fighting ghosts. But it’s more than witchcraft. It’s not just about poverty and our sorrows. Ever wondered whether war was born in Africa? It’s not just that of our mothers being scorned by their husbands of acting poor, laboring their butts off, without a care at how bad they look with the goat-wig on their head. To survive in Africa, and to thrive in this supposedly once upon a time a dark continent, you need to work hard. Harder than anyone in the first world country would do. The efforts to liberate, to culture an identity and to be self-sustaining. Long struggle. A long journey. More than a destiny that beckons. Seemingly near, yet so far.

A momentary flash back to a discussion I eavesdropped or rather participated in passively July last year. We were out for a Board meeting and after our usual work routine, discussion sprawls, gets heated. One lady enjoys reading espionage. Oh, you don’t quite look it. Oh, yea. Then religion and the curse of it. Then the story curves to Africa. The gradient gets steeper. To how we failed to sell ourselves, and had to adopt what was imposed to us. Oh, really? So we would have sold fashion to the world as tying some skin around the loins, our mothers and sisters as bare-chested and our perfume being “nondo”. You know that stuff the Turkana women still smear on their “Mohawk”? or the Somali men in Eastleigh have on their beards.

We had a false start! Someone revolts. Am coiling in constrained laughter. Some fellows here are scientists and accomplished people. We should have sold the witchcraft as a science. Damn! Am almost revolting, like to say “shidwe kabisa”. Then I remember these are my seniors. Very senior when you look at the organizational food chain. So allow myself to be mused. The very evidence that a human being can resort to eating grass as prescribed by the dark forces subsequent to stealing a neighbors chicken is science. African science. Christianity came to point it as wrong. Oh, really! Yes, someone would have staged a case against the white men and insisted witchcraft is an African brand. A science and there are many other brands out there. In the current terms, outdated practices. To be honest, I feel indifferent. I get the humor and move on. The indignance, when you consider the tales of misery associated with “African science”. But yea, we have many more good practices that we can sell as our brand. My mzungu colleagues still pour some Mayonnaise on their Ugali. Next, Ketchup? It’s tasteless food, this one.

I read on. Azaro’s adventures. Very bright chap. Draws complex mathematic formulaes on a history book and getting spanking for it. He develops great formulaes and can understand the complexities of quantum physics. Feels like he just picks from where Albert Einstein left. Can read eloquently for his age. Evidently reads out some love poems to the father, as they both craft a way to get the enstranged wife back. The one who hawks cheap wares. The one who wears a moth eaten goat-wig. When the dad is surprised he can read so eloquently for his age, he says, daddy, my head grows bigger in the night. Don’t read again. Must be DARK FORCES.

They venture to look for the mother…through familiar routes. They sore their soles. Beads of sweat. They stop to eat something and father only remembers his vow not to eat till the wife is found only too late. Too late to spit the food. No route seems to give pointer to the destination of the mother’s wares. Didn’t your mother ever take you with her, eh?

“I didn’t know your mother walked so much every day. Why didn’t she ever tell me that she suffered so much to sell so little”

The rhetoric! I make a mental sigh. Now you understand. Sad how we judge each other’s labours. In our moments of distress, when it’s all not adding up and we vent out our frustrations. Such is the African story. The struggle brings us together. The struggle also creates weak lines in our fabric. But hey, Africa is a family. I choose to remain here.

The Low!

To be honest, am deep into the book but losing momentum. Maybe it’s the repetition. Some bloated redundancy. I remember once pushing a favourite author’s book due to the heavy pre and post modification that made it a bore. The famished road is a famed read and I wish I paid for it first. Songs of Enchantment from some review, is more of creation of disaster in an attempt to outdo the former. Somehow, the spirit companions of Azaro take too much Centre stage and cloud the story line. The metaphorizing, maybe works to understand the local context, I also like that the Author is boldly imaginative but at some point, I kept thinking, where is the story. It’s hidden in the deep struggles with poverty and the influence of political magicians on the locals. I particularly detest Madame Koto! That political witch! I got so much pity for Azaro, oh! And Ade…and those beggars. I will nevertheless hold on to see whether this spirit-child living in poor African village will triumph. Maybe not. He is an unwilling adventurer. There is too much magic and overdose of the supernatural overshadowing the story. There is hardly a breather, to savour the next “magical moment”.

………….This is the song of a circling spirit. This is the story for all of us who never see the seven mountains of our secret destiny, who never see that beyond the chaos there can always be a new sunlight……Page 3, last para, Songs of Enchantment (Ben Okri)