I’d want to run as far and as fast as I could, but I just feel angry at myself and, at the same time, strangely appeased. Someone too close is falling off the face of this earth, to never come back, and here I am, in the middle of the night, going over our short history, painfully short, to be finished before reaching the end as an unfinished business in a ghost town. And I sense the specter of your laugh shall accompany me as a slight scent until I’m too gone, however not leading me back to you again. You’re taking away with you a part of me, the memories etched upon us, that I could still narrate, but no more share. I regret the time lost while paying phone bills, putting petrol in the car, discussing trifles, and I realize most people aren’t getting prepared for death, theirs or anyone else’s. It startles them, terrifies them. Like a big surprise. Damn, it shouldn’t be! Stupid! I thought I was prepared as I’ve always carry death in my back pocket. Sometimes I got it out and talked to her, “Hey baby, how are you? When are you coming for me? I’ll be ready”. But it turns out I am not prepared —not for your death.
Why? I know I shouldn’t lament for death, as I shouldn’t lament for a growing tree. But maybe the terrible part is not death itself, but the lives we live or do not live up to our death. When we haven’t honoured our existences. When we let them to piss upon us. When they shit on us as stupid jerks too focused on arguing, hate, paying rent, buying shoes, shirts, socks, all those things, a car, something to eat, not to mention all those little intangibles, as women, or men. Our minds, filled with cotton, mindlessly swallowing god, mindlessly swallowing country, swallowing anything without thinking. Very soon we shall forget how to think, letting others doing it for us. Ugly stuffed cotton brains, talking and walking in ugly ways, making death for most of us a farce —as we have nothing left that can die. And yet, we are rarely ready for that final act, at least when it comes to a loved one. To you.
I do not know how these things happen. — Oh, Christ! —I’m screaming-. Christ!
It’s morning and it’s day, and I’m myself alive. At least in a sense, because I’m again in a bar, too drunk, looking through the bottle at those little intangibles, as the show must go on. And then I see her. God or whoever is non stop creating women and throwing them into the world, and then the ass of this one is too flat, and that other’s tits are too big, and this one is a hysteric, and that one is a nymphomaniac, and that is too tight, and that one beyond practices yoga and she can not control her farts, and that has deformed fingers, and this one has a ridiculously crooked legs … But occasionally a proper condition woman comes around, a woman bursting out of her clothes … a sex creature, a curse, a last straw. I look and there she is, in the back of the bar. — Another little drink? — Sure.
And here I’m building again a fake image of myself that is intended to protect me from the due confrontation with my own ghosts. Hence, often, I only encounter them late at night, in the corridors of my dreams.
I won’t forget you, I want you to know. Your absence will be like a solid material that will always accompany me, along the pain. My fingers cannot hold you again, but I won’t stop loving you. However, I’ll go on living, even sometimes this knowledge would be the most inhumane part of the loss.
To my sister – Dugutigui
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).