Once a man wearies in years, he thinks more of another life;
an eternal reunion with his forbears. Then, the mystery behind death is unarmed
and his own death could be discussed over tea while he beams with smile as if
it were his fortune that is being spoken of. I strongly see those who speak
about their own death as the bravest people on earth. This is because, these
set of persons, can attempt a far length to achieve what they set out to
achieve even in the face of demise.
I was young once and I knew how the thought of death pricked
me like needle; made me cry while in the dark; made me scared when at night I
was alone at home. When people die in our climes, it is believed that their spirits
find rest somewhere in the underworld where they wait patiently to be
reincarnated into a full-fledged being.
As an infant, people always claimed they saw a spirit go
before cries announced the passing to the silent night. They had given
descriptions of their claims so that they became so real: sometimes they
described spirit as a flash of silver light which cut through the moonless
night momentarily and then faded forever, or as a huge giant that appeared at
night with white garment and chilled aura, and whose head pierced into the
clouds. Other time, it was the barking of dogs or their digging of the earth around
the house or a wild chase of goats or sheep at night when nobody was actually
chasing them.
These signs became so real in my infant mind, it scared me
whenever dogs barked indiscriminately at night or there was a wild run of sheep
or goat straying under the full moon. Whenever I saw a stray dog digging a
shallow hole beside our brown bungalow, I would chase it off as though if there
would be death at all, my vigorous chasing of the dog would halt it. That was
the extent to which the fear of death pinned me down and flogged my infant
reasoning. But now, due to aging, I have lost all these fears and doubted
severally the virility of death’s superstitious claims. Nowadays, I think of my
own aging and death with light heart. My discussion of my own demise as if it
were a prize sometimes baffles me. Of course, it is one big prize, because
somehow it would complement my life.
When I recline to solitude and muse about the abstraction
called life, I would mold myself into an immortal being or scenery like the mountains,
valleys, the rivers, the oceans and their vast shores; and like the
aforementioned, I would imagine my ageless self without (a glimpse of a
beginning or an end) watch a baby born by his young parents and cared for by
his grandparents. They visit the sea shore together for relaxation. Then, the
child grows into a father, gets a wife and bears a son. His grandparents die
and his parents become grandparents who visit the same sea shore with them. His
parents die; he and his wife sooner become grandparents while their little boy
grows into a man, marries and bears a son. The man (now as grandfather) visits
that same sea shore with his wife, son, son’s wife and grandson for relaxation.
When he dies eventually, the cycle continues till eternity, yet the sea shore
remains bluntly unchanged. Sometimes, when I think deeply and place myself in
the shoe of that sea shore which will watch many generations rise and fall
under its unblinking gaze for eternity, I shiver and bless Death for his one
salvation.
Yes, being eternal scares me; living for eternity, watching
the sun rise above the strands of clouds against the eastern horizon and
setting in west scares me. Thus, if my wish is granted, after this one eventful
life of consciousness, I would desire a peaceful rest of eternal unconsciousness,
or a life where I would be reborn with zero memory of the previous life I had
lived, grow old to die and be reborn into another world recurrently. I would
desire a new start, not one stretch of eternity in which transformation would
be denied me. I hate being in one location for a long time, hence, I say thanks
to death for his kind rescue.
No comments:
Post a Comment