Samwana

I still remember that dark Tuesday. 5.42 am was the time. I received a call from my younger uncle, Jamo. “Jomba tulijaribu lakini Mungu alikua na mpango wake.Mjomba wako Wanjala ametuwacha.” Since then, I have hated Tuesdays. The brown varnished casket shone under the midday sun. It bore the scent of wet paint, as does most new coffins. The man therein, pinned helplessly by the hands of death, was my beloved. Someone I had desperately loved in life. I didn't know, whether I loved or pitied him in death.  For a long time, I stood, starring at his face. The skin had turned ashy, with little droplets of sweat. Curtained behind his delicately shut eyelids, were big, innocent eyeballs. His nose still stood, sharp. Why couldn't they breathe, at least one last time, for me? His lips were still alive. Full as they had been, in the many years we had known each other... All these while, I was convinced my uncle was asleep. I knew he would wake up, in due time... Then,