Skip to main content

Death Called Her


Death called to her
A tribute to my friend Cynthia
By L.J

Death called to her
It whispered her name in the shadows
It crept in the shadows of her room
It stole the light of day from her
‘Come unto me!’ It said.

Death called to her
Right from birth she was destined to be its’ friend
It stole her mother upon child birth
Her father remarried, a wicked soul emerged
Anguished, she always felt
‘Come unto me!’ It said.

Death called to her
The wicked soul stole her innocence
An adult woman, she grew fast to become
She fought and strived for survival
‘Come unto me!’ It said.

Death called to her
A matatu knocked down a motorcycle
A scream filled the air, and then silence
It took him away, a father from a child
Her major source of comfort and survival
‘Come unto me!’ It said.

 Death called to her
With nowhere left to call home, she left
Moved in with the first man she met
She forgoe continuing with her education
All hope in life had she lost
‘Come unto me!’ It said.

Death called to her
A few months later, it whispered again
Loudly this time
The ground mourned the loss of a young one
From dust you came and from dust you return
‘Come unto me.’ The ground accepted her


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Five Scars and a Breath

 Some stories find you and change you. This one did. In today’s post, I’m honoured to share a deeply moving account of pain, survival, and unexpected grace. It's a story of resilience, recovery, and what it means to return from the edge with five scars and a breath. Shared with permission and written in her own words: Five Scars and a Breath " At the beginning of last year, I became fluent in the language of pain. I knew the routine by heart - walk into the hospital, wince through registration, and recite my prescription like a nurse: Start with 40 milligrams of Nexium, top up with another 40 if the pain doesn’t retreat. I wasn’t a doctor, but I played one with practiced confidence. Until one day, the pain didn’t follow the script. They gave me 80 milligrams of Nexium, then paracetamol. The pain remained, stubborn and screaming. Then came the opium. Relief arrived cloaked in a darkness so absolute it stole my sight. The pain retreated but not without a warning. I finally surre...
3 comments
Read more

The Messenger

“Mama! Mama!” That call became her signature tune, the sound that made her mother’s heart skip a beat every time she heard it. This is the story of Ella, the family’s messenger of doom. A role she never asked for, but one that somehow chose her, maybe because she is the eldest daughter in the family of Habbu. Ella is the fourth child out of eight. Before her are three brothers whom Habbu, their father, sent to the white man’s land, America, to study and make something of themselves. So when they left, Ella became the eldest at home, holding the fort for everyone else. She took care of her parents, her younger siblings, and in many ways, became the glue that kept the family running. With that came another role, that of the bearer of news. All news. But mostly, bad ones. The first message came like a thief in the night. A telegram from Nairobi. Her younger sister’s husband had died, barely two years into marriage, leaving behind two little children, one still breastfeeding. There were n...
Post a Comment
Read more

Calling on Our Ancestors

When I think of prayer, I remember that the African way was often through calling on our ancestors. Long before formal religion came to our lands, our people believed that those who had gone before us still walked with us, standing at the threshold between the living and the divine. Ancestors were not distant shadows but custodians of wisdom, protectors of families, and intercessors who carried our cries to God. Whether through libations poured on the earth, whispered names in the quiet of the night, or ritual gatherings around the fire, prayer in Africa was deeply relational, a way of keeping the bond between generations unbroken. I never imagined I would one day find myself reaching for that path. But when my niece lay in a hospital bed, and doctors struggled to find a clear diagnosis for her discomfort, I felt powerless. That night, my sister sent a message saying the doctor suspected a heart defect. My younger sister and I had just left Gertrude’s Children’s Hospital around 3 a.m.,...
Post a Comment
Read more