The Cold Clutch Of Death

Sunday morning, 12 February 2012 tasted like old moldy cheese laced with fungi that wreaked havoc in my stomach. Horrid. The onset of grief began at 8 am with 16 missed calls from my little sister. I woke up in sleep reverie but mostly gripped by the aftermath of consuming copious amounts of colorless volatile flammable liquid. Vodka my nemesis. My head felt like the devil had tried to crack it open with a rolling pin. Foul does not even begin to describe my mood. I slit my eyes as I stared at my phone and thinking what kind of solar brightness level is this? The text message diced my chest like a samurai sword, “Mainini Tafadzwa passed away last night.” The world stopped orbiting, the waste in my rectum began to liquefy and my mouth was as dry as a desert cactus on a hot day. What kind of a sick joke is this? Dead? Remember her contagious laughter, can you hear it? Yes, that’s right focus on that, that’s all you got right now. I sat there listening to her laughter, her face breaking into a smile showing the famous family tooth gap. Mind over matter, she was immortal because in my mind she was alive, above death and the earthly principle of the circle of life. One hour passed as I let my mind be consumed by her life, I listened to her talk and how she was excited for her daughter who was starting her first grade. She talked so fast you could almost miss her lisp. My phone rang dissipating my last moments with her. I felt my throat closing and began to gasp for air. She is really dead! The tears fell like a rapid and plentiful waterfall. The agony was unbearable. Tear your hair out, throw yourself on a rock or a cobblestone road. Block that grief with physical pain. But I sat there, hot tears gushing out dropping from my chin to my thighs. I was pained to the core.
A funeral of a person robbed suddenly unawares is the worse than the darkest pits of hell. She was found dead in her bed, died in her sleep with no medical explanation because she was as fit as a fiddle. The Dodo could return and be extinct again instead of taking my Aunt. Bring her back and take R. Kelly. The coffin is the epitome of surrealism. An irrational juxtaposed image, because you could not tell me my aunt was closed up in that box of claustrophobia. I will be damned. They could open up a crack for her so she could have some air at least. No, she is dead and the decaying process has begun. Maggots. Maggots. Skeleton. Corpse. For the first time, I wailed letting the screams of emotional pain drown the voices in my head. I cried until my voice was hoarse and I was hiccupping with grief. A great premium hopes you trip and die to Hades. Sir, touch my family again and you are not ready for the spinal column rip like Sub fucking Zero in Mortal Kombat. Death, the personification of the power that destroys life. She died, but did she really die? Remember that day when you braided her hair and you talked for eon hours about the future. The giggles and gossip that strengthened your relationship. Remember when she held you in a bear hug when Ronald the leprechaun broke your heart? Those sleepovers that were actually chick flick all-nighters. If you can see all that now, is she really dead? Death is just physical and the thought of never seeing a person again is what strings the perpetual pain of loss. Death becomes powerless for it can not transcend over memories. Memories that took a lifetime to manufacture and inextricably deep bred in our hearts.
May she be reincarnated in a better and more fulfilling life. Souls-like energy can not be destroyed but can be moved from one form to another. Her soul lives! That is the light that guides me in my darkest moments. I looked at her son and daughter robbed of their mother. How in the hell were such young children processing all this? I choked on tears, and the preacher’s final words caught my attention. The Lord giveth and taketh. I am pretty sure that’s not how it works maybe in a metaphysical interdimensional world but why would God take my aunt away? Look at her kids, her son 8 years old and her daughter merely 5. A scribe wrote but did he write? Writing is communication, and writing laden with ambiguity, relative metaphors and holes is a mystery. Death is a mystery, let’s live it at that, Mr. Preacher sir.

Tafadzwa Assumtpta Ndoro

The night my aunt slept for the final time, I was at the bottom of a vodka bottle bumping to Party rock. I carried that guilt for some time, but even if I was at an all-night prayer or anywhere else in the world, she was still going to die on 12 February 2012. What a way to go maintaining and trust you to die on the same day with Whitney Houston. When they sang Ave Maria in the Cathedral I felt her smile and I am pretty sure the little rainbow formed by the sun searing through the stained glass was her saying, everything is gonna be alright. As I write this, I am crying because it hurts and I miss her so much. We barely cope with death, you just learn how to live with the pain but it never really goes away. It is almost 7 years and that day is as fresh as tomorrow’s morning dew. Continue to rest in peace our angel. This blog is in loving memory of everyone we have lost. Death is not the end but the beginning of another journey. Remember your loved ones that you lost in the comments section, they still live in our hearts! Tissue on the left and vodka on the right if you feel you need to chug it out.

Rest In Peace:

Rest easy, until we meet again…

One thought on “The Cold Clutch Of Death

Add yours

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Proudly powered by WordPress | Theme: Baskerville 2 by Anders Noren.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: