I was in love

The demise of a loved one

It was on a Wednesday afternoon when I came back from school, my stomach growling with hunger. I yearned to eat something I could find at home. My parents were away; my father was very sick, diagnosed with an unknown illness. He was with Mom and my little sister.

As I entered the house, I saw that my grandma had cooked something. I reached out to the plate to taste the delicious meal when a member of our community came running in, holding a mobile phone. I waited for minutes before she could talk; it was obvious she was exhausted from the run.

After resting, I waited with anticipation to hear what she would say, still holding the meat in my hand. My stomach couldn’t stop growling; I was eager to hear her news.

“’I was sitting alone in my house when I heard the sound of my phone,’ she said.

I stood there, waiting for her to reveal why she had come.

“’I searched for my phone, and after some time, I found it. To my surprise, it was your mom,’ she continued.

My heart skipped a beat; I thought maybe she had come to say they were finally discharged and would be heading home soon. But alas.

I let her finish talking. ‘Your mom said your father’s condition has worsened.’ I don’t know how, but I threw away the meat in my hands. I slowly felt my strength leaving me; my growling stomach stopped. I no longer felt the need to eat.

“’I thought my father’s sickness had always been worse,’ I exclaimed.

“’Yes, but it has gotten worse than before,’ she replied.

She left, and my sisters returned from fetching firewood. I told them what happened. It was 6:00 in the afternoon. I went to play with my friends, leaving my sisters deep in thought. I didn’t care much; I didn’t understand the pain. I was only eleven.

The news initially hurt, but it faded, knowing my father would be fine. After playing, I returned home. From a distance, I heard mourning sounds coming from my house. I slowed my pace, passing my neighbor’s house, where I overheard them whispering, “He was a good man, but now it’s all history. How will his children live?” I ignored them.

As I approached, I saw my two sisters crying alone. My elder sister and my father’s younger brother’s daughter were overcome with grief. When they saw me, their cries intensified. “Alexander!” my sister screamed. My heart skipped a beat; I was shocked.

“What?” I replied.

“Father has died,” she said.

Initially, it didn’t sink in. I sat with them, processing the situation. My sisters continued crying loudly; we were alone. Suddenly, tears streamed down my face. I folded my legs, wrapped my arms around my knees, and remembered my father’s love. I cried louder.

I bore his name; he loved me the most, sharing everything with me and denying others. I was his special child.

Moments later, neighbors arrived to comfort us. We searched for a phone to contact my brothers, one in college and the other in high school. By 9:00 in the evening, I waited for my mom, but exhaustion took over, and I slept.

I don’t know how I made it to my room, but I woke up to the sound of crying, with my mom’s wails rising above the others.

“How could you do this? How am I going to take care of the children?”

I was hurt; I still remember that day like it was yesterday. My grandma kept shouting my father’s name. I went outside and realized I had peed on myself during the night. Everywhere I went, people laughed, and I felt embarrassed. Someone reached out to my sister, and she brought me another pair of trousers.

I met my mom after months, and my younger sister, four years old, was busy playing, unaware of what was happening. She had grown, and I smiled when I saw her.

A day later, it was time to lay my father to rest. I didn’t follow to the graveyard; when people asked, I said no. Someone supported me, saying, “He’s still young; let him stay. He’ll be traumatized.”

To this day, I don’t know where we buried my father, but with time, I will.

After the burial, my uncle from town came. We sat together around the fire on Saturday afternoon, the radio playing. “I plan to take two of your children with me,” he said. My attention shifted; I hoped they’d pick me. My name was mentioned, along with my younger sister, the older sister to the last born. However, they deemed her too young, leaving me as the only qualified one.

We spent the night near the bus station on Sunday, my last day in the village. Few people knew I was leaving. I bid farewell to my friends, painful but necessary. I couldn’t say goodbye to my crush amidst the crowd, so I let go.

I returned home, said goodbye to everyone, and left.

That night marked the last time I peed on myself in bed, a habit of waking up to pee during the night.

The waiting was over. On Monday morning, the Uber arrived at 5:00 a.m. to pick us up. We packed all our luggage in the boot and set off.

This was my first time boarding a bus for a long distance. “Soon you’ll be in the capital, with cars and people everywhere,” my uncle said.

“Do you have to tell him about cars as if he doesn’t know them?” my aunt asked.

My uncle responded, “There are no cars in the village, just ox carts everywhere.” We laughed.

Sitting by the window, I stared at the mountains, forests, and villages we passed. My uncle made a phone call, informing my cousins we were coming, mentioning he was bringing someone – me.

After six hours, we arrived in Lusaka, the capital city. He called an Uber to pick us up from the station. I was amazed by the roads, buildings, houses, and cars. I realized there’s more to life than just eating green mangoes with salt.

Everything I thought didn’t exist, I saw it then. Minutes later, we arrived home, where my cousins and brother (my mother’s older sister’s son) waited. I felt overwhelmed.