00.
I am here to speak to you. My tone is measured, subdued—grief does this. Hear my snorts, my cracked voice carrying a pain that trembles my heart. I write to heal you from your grave. I do it to revive the moments we shared. It is not easy, and when I finally put the pen down, the paper crisp from drying, I wipe the film of sweat from my face. Only then do I walk to the waters. I need to visit you.
01.
So we must have talked about this, either briefly or in depth. I must have asked, and you must have responded:
—on the idea of faith. Religion. Spirituality.
—for me faith is not…
I read this message as I walk to the waters that took you. I am going there because your spirit has been hovering around me, lurking about my sight and nagging my thoughts, asking to be purged. I know because you still smell like you—the Nivea cologne. I am unsure about the ritual to purge you, but I know that you are easy to please. Maybe you just want attention like you always did. Your voice has been in my ears, lonely but beautiful. When I get to the waters, I will sing you a hymn. I will snap my fingers like choir masters do, you will open your mouth wide and bless the other spirits with your song. The timbre in your voice will leave them wanting and wanting. I will walk away still questioning whether they saw the vein on your neck bulging and pounding hard as you reached for higher notes. This is the purging I have planned.
As I walk, I am staring above to the place where religion taught us the good ones ascend to after they die. You are there—or so I think—but there is doubt looming, similar to the one you depicted when you sent me this message.
I gaze, with effort, to see the sky draw your face. The lustre and the beauty is still there. I am glad that death has kept you. Everything is still tucked in, including the snarl on your lips which formed whenever I teased you. The first part that appears is the gap between your teeth.
Do you remember that it was Uncle Ayub who told us that the gap meant beauty for women and bravery for men?
You should remember this. You were always good with remembering, and I am almost sure death doesn’t interfere with memories, otherwise your ghost would have forgotten me, us. I see your laughter in the sky; it is muffled just like it always was.
I catch the mirth in your eyes as you laugh; the easy grace of your joy is still lodged there.
02.
25 July 2019
09h00: We are on a video call with you. You are reclusive and the screen of my phone is magnifying it even more. There is a hollow look in your eyes and I can see a lump of tears gathered around your eyes. Your physical body exudes defeat but you know surrendering is not an option.
No.
Never.
The wound from the attack in the lake seems bad. I can see pus running out of it. I want to save you, distance doesn’t allow it. You stammer with words, quivering while you explain how it all happened but I shush you. I don’t want you reliving the pain of being devoured by a water creature that the doctors reckon was a crocodile. I don’t want you to return to the moment when you realise that half the water in the lake is laced with your blood. There are pains better unspoken and yours is one of them.
You want us to gossip. Today, it lacks the performance that it normally did. Today, you are not flailing your hands about; you are not contorting your face to dramatise. You are few of gestures. The signs are there, that you are leaving. My heart sinks. I am away. I am in a different city, in a different country.
—Fahm, say a prayer for me-
The last words you say before my reception glitches.
The network cuts.
13h00: New cities have different rhythms. It is much more annoying if a person cannot understand the language of the people there. On this date, at around this hour, I decide to respect your wish. Behind the shack I call my house, there is a church. They do lunchtime prayers. The intercession is dramatic: shouting, wailing, rolling—the atmosphere is riled up with supplications. Everyone wants to be heard by God.
Later on, after your death, I will confirm it—God is partial. The blaring is too much. I whisper prayers for your healing. Shouting is not for me. This is the one time I speak in tongues. I do so to invoke the Holy Spirit to come visit you at the Kenyatta National Hospital. I rub my knees on the tiles of this church, pleading and pleading that one word be said to save you from death. I even scratch my knuckles (albeit accidentally). When I finish, I walk back to my shack—desperate but assured, assured that prayers get answered and that you will get better.
14h00: My network reception is still poor. However, as if through magic, I see Whatsapp updates. From one I see your photo, the one which you took on your birthday shoot. On another I see the same, then another, and another. I feel it before reading their captions. I feel it impulsively, gnawing my guts. My heart drops. My day dies with you when I see the words, “Rest In Peace.”
03.
We were raised in the church, right?
We recited Bible stories as children, no?
I know you quit the church, but I know you still remember the stories we read. I have been revisiting the story of Eijah and him climbing to the sky in a burning chariot. I would have really wanted to be a part of that.
I would like to know which Bible event or story you would have wanted to be a part of.
I am standing by the waters listening to the lapping of the waves. Your spirit is here standing by me, towering as always. I read this message out loud hoping you can hear. I have recited the response I would have given repeatedly since your demise. It is one of the many messages you sent that I never responded to. Maybe because I assumed you would always be there. I thought life was eternal.
My eyes wander trying to spot the point where Mama says the attack happened. Her description was vivid but I can’t spot the place. The waters have moved, perhaps in search of other prey. This stirs a feeling in me, rage. I want to fight these waters, to inflict the angst they have brought to our family. I want these waters to mourn.
You clear your throat to interrupt my reverie.
Liz, you remain yourself even in death. The attention-seeking sister I was blessed with. You clear your throat again. This second clearing is to remind me that you are ready to sing.
—Excuse me, let me respond to your question first…
You nod, I assume.
—I want to see revelation happen. I want to hear the last trumpet sound. I want to experience the last joy of saints—those who have conquered the fights of the world. I want to see them welcomed home. I hope you are there.
Having given you my response, I rub my fingers then snap them. I move them from here to there like choristers do.
This is the ritual I have designed to purge your spirit. I want you to return to your resting place. I want you to be in Paradise, in peace till we reunite.
As I conduct, you sing. You do it like old times when childhood was with us and naivety prevailed. I hear your voice mingle with others. You are not lonely anymore. You raise your voice higher to hit those notes. I see you smiling at my gestures, the gap between your teeth confirms. You are beautiful, Liz. I drag my hands apart. You know this, it is a signal for you to finish the song.
It ends and I applaud.
I clap loudly to cheer you on.
You are purged, Liz.
The sun is hot now, and the weather has finally lost its grace. I leave for home. But I do so with a promise.
—I am going away to work on my faith. Whatever I believe in I will make sure it is a deity that will reunite us, me and you.
Akal Mohan is a Kenyan short story writer, essayist and poet. He is a 2023 Idembeka Creative Writing Fellow and Ibua Novel Manuscript attendee. In 2022, Akal was a recipient of two digital creative writing residencies organised by the University of East Anglia, one which resulted in a short story anthology to which he contributed. When not writing, he assists in coordinating writing classes and masterclasses at Lolwe Academy and also serves as the editorial assistant at Ubwali Magazine, a literary magazine from Zambia.