Dali

o n e

On Saturday mornings mum blasts Joyous Celebration so loud our windows rattle and shake. You can usually hear her thick alto voice from across the street. Those are my mother's happiest moments. When she's not stressed about my father and his new wife or Chikondi's carelessness she is belting out praise and worship songs.

"We have so much to be greatful for. Even when the path is dark, we are still breathing." She'd often ramble.

This Saturday however,  the house is silent and the windows aren't rattling. Her raspy alto voice isn't filling the space. She sits in silence. Mourning the loss of her gifted child.

There are never this many people in our house. In fact, we rarely have visitors. They fill our hallway, the kitchen and the living room that we rarely sit in, the one with the hideous leather couches. Each person in silent prayer, each probably asking God why he had to take this one. I know that's what I've been asking him.

Occasionally my mother will sniffle and let out a piercing wail. My mother, the stone pillar is turning into dust before my very eyes. My father stands next to her, across the room from me, his arm hanging limply over my mother's shoulder. A blank expression on his face. As always, an empty vessel void of any and all emotion.

The resident evangelist finishes his sermon, asking for a song to close off the scripture reading. A shrill voice, from somewhere in the kitchen starts a song unfamiliar to me and soon enough the whole house is buzzing with somber song.

He would have loved this. Unorchestrated melodies filled with pain and anguish.

"Harmonize with them." He'd encourage me.

He would have held my mother, like he always had and let her cry the pain out.

"We have so much to be greatful for. So much more that the Lord has planned for us." He would have whispered to het.

He would have taken Chikondi aside and spoken some sense into him. They'd  have walked back into the living room laughing and talking, stress free.

Instead, he lies cold in that hideous coffin. He wanted to be cremated. To have his ashes scattered at his favourite place, Lake Malawi. But we're here, congregating in our mother's house, singing somber songs and listening to sermons that are far too long because someone decided to play God.

Cups and saucers are passed around, the standard tea and scones for the guests. I don't understand this. The entire week I've made enough tea to fill a resevoir. People forget that we're supposed to be morning, instead I have walked back and forth between the kitchen and the living room because someone doesn't drink regular tea, they want rooibos or someone doesn't drink Cremora, they need fresh milk.

I opt to take refuge in my room. Away from these people. I have a letter to write for him,  as we always did. It was our thing. Just one last one to say goodbye.

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hi guys.

thank you for opening this book and for coming on this journey with me.