DEATH ON FOOLS DAY!

I transformed in a flash.

From my hospital bed, surrounded by a congregation of loved ones and foes, my “BUMI” escaped the body that had enslaved it for 82 years. I can now wander and be everywhere. Or can I?

I initially focused on what was happening at the bedside where I had been, a fraction of a millisecond ago. I saw nurses expertly prepare my body. They stuff my mouth, nose, and ears with fine cotton wool. They wrap my body in a GRZ-branded blue sheet and tie my body in three parts with a sisal rope. My legs, my arms with the abdomen, and my neck. They tie a label to my right toe so they can easily identify me.

There is surely a solemn atmosphere as my caregivers start to disperse. My wife ‘mourns’ uncontrollably. She is surrounded by friends and sympathisers. Everyone’s face is stained with sorrow and disappointment as they gather my belongings.

I see them place my body on a trolley on its way to the mortuary, where I will be placed in a zero-degree cold room. Next to me is a neat file of other bodies, whose souls are wandering about like mine.

“Bashikulu Tamanga has left us,” announces one of my siblings, holding my suitcase containing all the good clothes I was wearing in the hospital, which was all the best that I had!

“Don’t tell me!” Cries Chabuka. “Who shall help us? That was the only man in the family who you could share a problem with and would not hesitate to help.”

“Inform all that he has just been dispatched to the morgue.”

Phones ring. An influx and exchange of text messages. Social media comes live with news of my passing. Since I am all over, I see some smiles and sighs of relief that they no longer have to cope with my disturbing peculiarities. Others are feeling safe with the secrets they feared I would divulge. Others are genuinely sorry this has happened to me. Still others are happy they will have no competition any more.

I am watching everything.

My uncle is having lunch at his fishing camp when the phone rings. He is scantily dressed in a pair of Palalwa shorts after stripping off his shirt. His well-built body is sweating in the October heat. He fidgets to press the green key of his ‘Mutinika-Mpompa’ handset as he swallows a chunk of muta (catfish).

“Hello, hella, hullo!” he stutters as the wailing voices come through faintly from the other end.

“Bashikulu Tamanga has died.”

“Who told you? That can’t be true.” He says.

“I am just coming from depositing his body at the mor…”

“I see. Make sure you arrange to bring his remains to the swamps. We do not want him to be buried ku mulundu. You heard me. No more talk,” he hung up and continued munching.

I turned my attention to my house. My cousin who came to help take care of me while I was sick is ‘devastated.’ She offers to put things in the house in order as she engages in a solo dirge, remembering every good thing I did for everyone. She goes into my bedroom and makes a quick mental record of my possessions hidden in this part of the house. She was surprised to see that I had 9 pieces of clothing, while my whole wardrobe was full of my wife’s clothes. She quickly concludes that my wife has hidden the best of my clothes so she can give them to her relatives. She plans to expose her* mulamu *at the Isambo lya Mfwa Indaba. Meanwhile, she checks whether my shoe size matches her husband’s. She is not sure, but she will hide a pair anyway.

Outside, my half-brother is constantly on the phone. Pompas is such a pompous fellow with a showy display of gold and silver rings on all five fingers of his left hand. He is pacing up and down, speaking loudly about how everyone should come to my funeral, and that he will give them money to travel back. He would buy them T-shirts, brand them with my best photograph, and dress all the women relatives in new Chitenge attire. This is the guy who has never cared about the old in the family! He is also talking to a funeral parlour agent to arrange the most expensive casket for me, the one he denied K50 for Panadol a few days ago.

I can see good men bring in a big tent from the military camp. My house is just a few meters from a dual carriageway. They decided to close both roads to give me the* “Last Respect.”* Really? Motorists must use the old dusty road that meanders around the community. Note that I have lived in this neighbourhood for forty-three years, and few people know my name.

A group of boys from nowhere arrive, lurking like crocs looking for prey, looking for an opportunity to party. A few drunks lurch in, clutching half-empty Kankoyo Brew bottles, asking who passed away. They sit solemnly across my backyard, whispering about whether the deceased was rich or poor. They would then decide to go and fetch their blankets and stay until I was buried.

Back in my village, my uncle has also organised everyone. The funeral is on, and they are expecting my remains as per his commands.

“Pompas, have you hired a helicopter already?”

“Not possible, uncle.”

“Why? Shikulu Tamanga had assets. You can sell his centre pivot, combine harvester or anything. After all, no one else will know how to manage them,” concluded my uncle. His motive is to come and give instructions about who gets what from my estate.

At the funeral house, my widowed Zimbabwean neighbour has commandeered his old Bedford to deliver firewood. He wants my wife to see his kind gesture. Who knows, maybe he can win her heart now, after fruitless attempts in the past.

My stepdaughter is looking miserable. She is worried about the next stepfather-to-be. “Will he treat me worse than the late? I had gone through hell. This death could have been a relief to me. There will, surely, be someone else for my mom.”

I have seen it all, bantu bandi, from where I stand somewhere in the universe.

Let me go and wander around and see what my friends, workmates and business associates are up to.

I will tell you more if I ever resurrect.

Oh, sorry, folks! I am just imagining! I wrote this on 1 April, Fools’ Day! I had nothing to do. Please know BUMI does not wander anywhere.