ALONE AND JADED AT DEATH.

BY Brian Nzomo.

Here I lay on the bed as death whispers to my ear. Frigid mornings dominated by weariness. Rainy afternoons when the harsh drops pounded the ironsheet roof. And the days shutting their doors without even a glimmer of sunlight.

“How fast do the fountains of fortune dry up? ” I wallow in sorrowful sombre. In just six months, after it was confirmed I had a terminal tumour in my brain, the world swallowed everything I had. My livelihood, my wealth, my comfort, my family, everything…I came with nothing, I’ll leave with nothing.

But how soon. The world itself was so unfair, it wouldn’t let me part with my hard earned fortune when I would be lowered into my grave. It let me see my wealth trickle away like a leaking tank of water. And piled up the pain I was already experiencing from these never-ending killer headaches.

Initially, I lost my job. The distress I felt when I only thought of my impending death, made me mentally incapable of working productively. But my kin was determined to see me well again. I knew I wouldn’t survive this, for I was weak and lacked will. But they called me a pessimist.

Buttered my disillusioned frame with assuaging hope.
Is there any hospital corridor I hadn’t walked on? Is there any ward bed I hadn’t laid on? Endless tests and brain scans. Appointment calls in Delhi hospitals, London theaters…But nothing. Every word from the doctors’ mouths maintained the same message. Impending death.

But my family, my wife, everyone was determined…Despite my warnings. My skeletal finances were burdened heavily. And it wouldn’t be long…before a jobless me sinks to precarious financial instability.
Debtors began knocking on my door. One by one auctioning my assets. Lands, businesses, everything…dwindling day by day. Misery and all its agents were swarming my life like habitual bedbugs.

I accompanied my wife to the many pastors she sought help from. Not that I believed any of them. But I saw the fiery hope in my wife’s eyes, I didn’t want to dash them by being complacent in my woeful sea. So I played along. Pretended to believe that god was going to heal me.

Lands, businesses, everything…dwindling day by day. Misery and all its agents were swarming my life like habitual bedbugs.

“Everything has a purpose. God’s will can never be comprehensible in the eyes of men. The suffering you’re facing now, god is preparing you for something better, a victory…,” the pastors said, in their hoarse voiced fashion. And my wife. She would shout AMEN. But nothing is ever free. Not even false hope. My wife paid heavily. The fiery pastors never come cheap. Money was poured. Sacrifice. The price of never found healing.

My uncles. They led me through thick forests, into deplorable shacks belonging to famed witchdoctors. But ‘African science’ also failed. Terribly. But also, with a price…
When it was apparently clear that my fate was irredeemable. And that my vessel would fall apart without panacea. Everyone began alienating themselves from me. It became worse when I sold my car, my mansion and when the last thin sheet of financial ice tumbled into the sea of poverty. I tried working in meagre-paying jobs. But so difficult were they. Exhausting. My ashen health couldn’t hold the task. The headaches intense…

Finally, my wife and son left. I was devastated but also somehow grateful. For I never wished to see my young son see me drained to the final end. So painfully and hopelessly.

Everything was lost. And what now remained, a frail man lonely and jaden on his bed. With nothing on his side but a mirror, a pen and a notebook. The only items of reflection for a dying man. A man who would die miserably.
I looked at my reflection on the mirror. An unshaven face with an unkept stubble. Eyes watery. Dried lips. The very face of death.

How can lonely death be so miserable? I wish I had someone to comfort me. Sing to me. At least make me laugh to my grave. But I lay here frozen in cold beddings. Cold as the flint of tomb. Getting weaker by the day.

But today seems my final write-up. The pages depleted. And my fingers cannot hold a pen firmly. The pen falls. Falls again. My breathing becomes fainter and difficult. My eyelids bate. Bate again. I summon the last of my strength to write two more lines. Just two…Not three…Not four…Two…

“Life’s fruit is insufficient for all men,
Some will bite for long, some will just lick its succulent skin, But can never be sufficient for all…”

My life ends. I can’t do this anymore. This life. The headache is eating up my brain to the core…I’m dying…hopelessly…jaden…And lonely . Miserable, woeful…

Brian Nzomo is a second year Communication student the Kenyatta university. Contact him via e-mail : bryonzoms505@gmail.com