Grim Reaper

I flicked through the pages of the little white booklet I held on my hands. The first page bears a portrait. A photo most likely taken with a selfie camera. I can't help but wonder how she felt when taking the photo. The organic smile that plastered her countenance as she pressed the shutter button. She has a smooth brown complexion. Light skin if you may. Her jaws hold a parade of pristine white teeth with a prominent gap between the upper front teeth; hallmark of beauty. The gap is wide enough to make me wonder if she can say the word 'samosa' three times in quick succession but not too wide to make one fret. Beneath the exceptional portrait are the words sunrise and sunset written in flowery font, perhaps to mitigate their effect.

The procession from the morgue had about five cars and a hearse. John, the husband of the deceased, sat in the front seat of the hearse. His elbow rested on the window and his palm supported his head that seemed to be weighed down by grief. At home a throng of mourners crowded the compound. Not mourners actually. Just a bunch of curious villagers. Some came to see their son who went looking for greener pastures in diaspora whilst others came to see the daughter of people of sukuma. Not the vegetable, hungry heads. Besides being a part of 'sukumawiki' sukuma is also a Bantu community in Tanzania.  

John and Rachel met back in 2012 in Dar-es-salaam. She moved in the following year. Theirs was a beautiful marriage. Mutual love, commitment and kids I presume. I haven't traversed those waters and therefore I refuse to preempt it's depth. Goodluck, Given and Greyson; a trio of studs brought into the world by their joint effort. Don't ask how or I might look for your Biology teacher and have them arrested for shoddy work. 

The illness started in late 2021. A sharp pain in the shoulder joint that rendered the whole arm numb. She was taken to a hospital. Nothing. The pain then faded away as mysteriously as it had come. This later proved to be a lull before a storm. A big storm that carried with it strong gales and wild whirlwinds. The pain moved to her back. She had an X-ray. Apparently everything was normal, at least according to the imaging. The pain then ramified her chest and held her lungs captive. It seemed like every attempt to diagnose her condition brought with it new symptoms, each more savage than its predecessor.

John was forced to assume her roles. He woke up, bathed the children, prepared food for them and their mother and sent them to school. He also had to go to work to make ends meet. The hospital bills were compiling with very little to show for it. Rachel decided to go back home to her mother. John permitted her after much supplication and negotiations with his in-laws. She travelled from Dar-es-salaam to Bariadi in Simiyu region, her cradle. 

When nothing makes sense in the light we have to search in the dark. In Bariadi she was innoculated with traditional medicine.Sporadically, a shaman would concoct a cocktail of herbs and pour it down her throat. Nonetheless, her condition worsened. When the pains set in she would cry in agony and roll on the ground. Her eyes would pop out of their sockets and her jugular vein would protrude dangerously. It was a horrific sight.

John called his mother- who is a bishop- for help.She prescribed divine intervention that would be sought by relentless prayers. She went to Bariadi and brought her daughter-in-law back with her. 

What followed was a continuous cycle between the bed, the alter and the hospital. A combination of weapons fashioned against one enemy; the illness. She went for a CT scan. Still there was no diagnosis. She was tested for malaria, menengitis, leukemia, pneumonia. A diagnosis was made. Malaria,which unfortunately was unlike any of the symptoms she had. A granary of drugs worth a staggering 10k was given to her. Who gives drugs worth ten thousand to a malaria patient. Even the doctors were dazed. This was a painful sign of despair. The beginning of the end.

Rachel was taken across the border back to Bariadi. A second CT scan revealed she had mist in her lungs. Due to the dwarf nature of my medical knowledge I can't explain further. Doctors in the house please... 

Her health deteriorated. She was taken to the Intensive Care Unit. Still there was no improvement. As a last resort, she was referred to a provincial hospital which had better equipment and could provide a more accurate and feasible diagnosis. On the day she was to be rushed to the hospital, the ambulance broke down, apparently. John and one of her sisters remained to take care of her.

 

The next day, another ambulance is sourced. They needed an ambulance because in her condition she couldn't travel without medical attention. At 6 AM John was already at the hospital. The first thing she told him was to send her greetings to Greyson, their one year old lastborn. He let her head rest on his lap as he stroke her chin with his thumb and poked her dimple with his index finger.She seemed to have improved. She tried to walk to the bathroom but could make no more than a stride. John carried her in his arms like a baby. He placed her on a chair in the bathroom where her sister would bathe her. He got out and shut the door behind him. John barely made two steps when he heard a panick-stricken voice calling him. It was Rachel's sister. He turned and opened the door.

Rachel was sitting on the chair, pale and frail, using the last ounce of strength she had left to wave him goodbye. He watched in horror as life ebbed out of her. Her biceps lost the strength to hold her arm upright and they collapsed on her thighs. Her neck slumped.He says even in her last moments, she still managed to carve him that beautiful smile. That smile that had him fall head over heels for her and which now orchestrated eternal separation from her.

John couldn't help but remember a disagreement that had erupted between Rachel and Aisha. Aisha was a Muslim girl who worked in their house as a maid when Rachel was pregnant. The quarrel ended with Aisha leaving scathingly vulgar remarks. Rumour has it that Rachel's illness was her doing. John did not believe it. He is the son of a bishop and is certainly not superstitious. However, at times a shrill voice tells him maybe he would have believed it and acted the outcome would have been different. Maybe she would still be alive. Did he do enough to protect her? Such moments are usually punctuated with streams of tears and emotional anguish. Most of the time he is solemn and sullen, but he tries not to crumble.

 

Rachel died with no one knowing exactly what killed her. The uncertainty that envelopes her untimely demise makes it harder for him to cope. He needs to know what snatched Rachel from him. He needs closure, which he sadly can not get because she is dead already. I look at the casket and wonder. Maybe I could phone a pathologist to do an autopsy. Perhaps a tumour may be found in the folds of the tissues of her lungs. I peruse my phone book. Sadly, the pathologists I know are still struggling with supplementary exams in campus. Closure is a luxury far beyond his reach. He'll have to muse and commiserate and maybe find his nirvana in the process.

John has managed to hold himself together. Not because he is strong but because he has to, for the trio. Greyson barely knows a thing but he'll soon start asking questions. Questions which will definitely prise open old wounds but which will need to be answered. 

After all the futile efforts to save Rachel's life did John expect death? Yes. He had seen the inevitability and was prepared for it or he thought he was. But no one is ever prepared for death. Death is always sudden. It strikes you out of the blue. Catches you pants down and makes a forced acquaintance with you. It caresses your skin with an exigent, vivid sensation. It purges the relevance out of your life and brings with it apathy. If it weren't for the kids, John would have completely lost it. They are his sole source of inspiration. They give him purpose, something to work for and to live for.

There's a house that's nearing completion in a small parcel of land. A house they had worked their fingers to the bone to build. John and Rachel. He fears that with Rachel gone, it will just remain a house. It'll never know the warmth of a home. It's walls, if they have ears, will never hear the pious orisons of a mother. The gaudy structure stands there as an epitaph to a once blossoming nuptial bond. A nexus that had been cut by the blithe scythe of the grim reaper.