Aguntasolo a figbogbo e file bora.
Akin o si ku
Ewa o si parun”
Late Saka Olayigbade foremost sakara musician.
The tall dandy will surrender his full length and make the earth his covercloth
The valiant will die and beauty perish
Death or even its mere thought brings out the philosopher in men. John Keats wrote his famous “Ode to a Nightingale” in the grip of the depressive thought of imminent death.
Also the eternal ‘Elegy written in a country Church Yard” by, oh God help me,I’ve forgotten his name, was inspired by the sight of an expanse of sod-land.
It is a strange death which brings relief to the living and absolutely abnormal one which fills the heart of the observers with joy and glee.
The normal effect death has on us is of grief, embarrasment, bitterness, hopelessness and even helplessness. Often death does not act the gentleman but is rude, rough and ruthless.
Last Saturday a member of my family died, a valued member, the type whose absence never merits the derisive ditty of:
E je o lo, nigba ti o lo kilose?
Alakori lo, ko la bewo,
E je o lo, nigba ti o lo kilo se?
Which in simple language translates , “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
I was in the service of ‘Lady Squib,’ my permanent weekend love, on Saturday 20th march 2010, when the news came that the grim reaper was at the threshold of my house. The doctor had been sent for but even that worthy was convinced that this cup would not pass.
I felt concerned enough about this grave development to intimate my extremely jealous ‘weekend consort’ for permission to visit home. The kindhearted and gracious ‘inamorata’ instantly granted my prayers and sent me forth with the cry “Run, Gecko, Run!
And run I did. On four wheels. I soon got home but the enemies had done their worst.
There she lay on her side, like a sheep which had suffered slaughter, eyes half closed, mouth partially open, supine but peaceful, a far cry however from her usual sleeping posture of a luxurious sprawl on her back, head aside in a decided I-feel-alright angle.
Even before I got very close, the vet, now turned undertaker had grimly informed me that “she has breathed her last.”
Curiously, I felt far from sad. I suspect I had anaesthesised my feelings. In fact I felt rather breezy.
I quickly dashed inside the house to ask after madam – the girl who bravely cared to marry me. My delicate flower was weeping her eyes out. It was a most touching sight because she never cared for a dog in the house in the first instance.
But here she was ten years later, since Abijawarabiekun (intrepid fighter much like a Tiger) came into our lives on May 31, 2000 when she was born on the very balcony where she gave up the ghost, crying seriously over Abija.
Abija was a frisky, fierce, yet friendly dog. She was a guard, sentinel, pet, friend and eventually, family. Very well behaved generally, except for occasional lapses. But then, who is perfect?
The whole household and neighbours would miss her. And, are already missing her.
Now my dear friends, a question: should you die today, will people remember you?
Another question: if they do, will it be for good?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment