Monday 27 November 2017

Dirge

My casket will be polished to look like mahogany, seeing the undertakers always want us looking our best. The many voices of the brethren will ricochet of its silent surface and cut the dry harmattan air into pieces. But because I will not die a hero there will neither be a flag for mother nor a gun salute to make the birds scream and rant. The search party will see my shoes at the shore. I kept them well.  But they will not see my body.
It was the sea’s outstretched smile and minty savor that drew me close. But I will drown today. The mermaids are bent on it. They, together with the waves, have formed a half circle around me. They push the current back when I try to move. Now they know I’m tired. And the spirits are taking turns laughing at the futility of my many swimming certificates. We were not taught how to die in class.
The lisp of the wind is breathy, like a rich baritone. The wind is closer at sea. I will simply sleep among the waves and wake among the mermaids. Perhaps the mourners will sing as haughtily as the wind and mother will remain as calm as the waters below this storm. I hope the men too will cry and the dogs will not bark at my kindred spirits in attendance.

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