My Lament

"Im going to sleep Lweendo." "ok, sleep well my friend."
The Next Day
You didnt get up. You are weak. Again with the traditional. With the witchcraft medicine. The old women come. They pray and you drink roots stewed to soothe demented spirits.
The Next Day
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
No one greets me. Is this the beginning of the end? The old Man visits. You cant walk. You cant even sit. The old Man staggers with the weight of your wobbly body as he places you on a bicycle and together you weave a wistful route to the clinic.
The Next Day.
"Lweendo, its maybe a bit malaria." No, No, No. "Do you know your status?" You dont answer. You dont eat. More women. More roots mixed with the nurse's random medication. A brother. An uncle. A sister. A friend. They mumble 'its ok.' They never smile again.
The Next Day.
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
I go to town. I see Boss. You are fading. Should I force you to the hospital? Boss asks "what is our role? what is the worst that can happen?" I say You die and I live with the guilt because I didnt try. So we go now says Boss and I.
We pick up a friend. He translates to the wives 'its time to go, help has arrived.' I kneel at your bedside. "is it ok? can we take you to the hospital?" No more traditional. You say yes. You are pale. You are trembling. You lay in the back with your mother and a friend. District regulations force us to journey to a further hospital for a transferral. The officer signed your papers. Told me you needed tests, we needed to hurry. Boss drives and I stare at the thundering clouds beckoning my melancholy.
Months of rumors. Of demon posession. Of ancestoral haunts. Lead to me carrying you up hospital steps. Please dont die. Please dont die. Please dont die.
The Next Day.
"Its positive Lweendo." The words were heavy; pregnant with pain, swollen with stigma, floundering with fear. "I know, its ok, I know." Expression of emotion in this moment's confession. Repression of the past seals the confusion for the future. No more 'what if.' No more 'perhaps.' Stand up for your life. If you stay still, the world presses in. If you take one step, you press back. You choose. You move.
"Dont tell my family." Tears and trembling lips. Signs of ignorance. Please dont die. Please dont die. Please dont die. By accepting the present state due to the behavior of the past than together we challange the future track.
Lead to us carrying eachother.
The Next Day.
You can sit! I joke and you smile. You eat and you know the new life will take awhile. They say rest, gather your strength. Make sure to come in three weeks with a friend. Your mother shook my hand and wore a big grin. I said "tomorrow I will come again. Now you sleep well my friend."
The Next Day.
We are going home. Bouncing along in the crusier, listening to the Beach Boys. You smile. You say you had a great dream last night. You were in AmericaLand with me and Chabota, laughing and speaking beautiful American english.
Scattered children consolidate at the Big Mama's House. "Thank you Lweendo for saving her life." Introduced to me their eyes reflect their mother's history. The oldest, a man studying the economy. Please dont die. The middle, a boy growing up solemnly. Please dont die. The youngest, a girl skipping gleefully. Please dont die.
The truth is you still have to fight. Tension in my neck. Block my shoulders from rest. Encourage you to live with no regrets. A cousin dropped by and along with tears in his eyes, his silence was indicative of an unrelenting pride. So I shook his hand and managed "dont worry brother. she will be fine."
I lied.
The Next Day
At church today they mentioned your name. Said you were sick but didnt give the reason away. Now the people smile as they pass by. They thank me and I see in their eyes the hope of a saved life. Your mother is so strong. Always at your bedside. She makes sure you take your tablets on time. Another cousin came to me, hopeful, for this week mirrors her own misery. She assures me we will speak with you so you will know the future isnt bleak.
The Next Day.
I stay away during the day. There are so many people, with so much to say. As the sun sets and the sky turns to pink and gray I figure I'll walk over to say goodnight.
But the air is wrong the closer I get to Big Mama's House. You are crying. You are screaming. Little Chipego and Riana huddle at the porch. There is just enough light so I can see they are as afraid as me. I take a deep breath and go inside. The room is lit by a single candle: haunting shadows danced along the mud-bricked wall. The wives and I are crowded, sitting by the mattress on the floor-its a horrific sight. The doctor had said this may be a side effect but its worse than I imagined.
Naked and flailing your arms, you are ranting and breaking into church hymns. You sit up and grab my shirt, interspersing 'Lweendo' and 'Chabota' in your flurried tongue.
"I dont know what your saying." Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
Im afraid so I start to cry, when your oldest child walks in, my tears I try to hide. Then he yells and the wives are listening, sitting. Its so loud!
Bitterly I stand and step outside. I look to the moon then your son walks out, head down on his chest. I grab his shoulders, lean him to my breast, and together we weep out the confusion of stress without rest.
Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
The Next Day.
You are quiet this morning. My stinging eyes are swollen from the emtions of the night. You are tired. You barely eat. Dont give up. Dont give up. Dont give up.
Your uncle took me aside and for the first time he said 'its bad, he worries you will die.' He told me they may send for the witchdoctor again. "No!" I burst out than took a breath and calmed my self. I explain its the medicine. "it makes the body strong but it hurts the mind sometimes." He understands and we share our concern that you dont eat. Your vomiting in your sleep. Your sweating, your shaking, your breathing is painfully labored.
Its just you and me in the room now. You are wrapped in blankets and sheets. "Do you fear? Does it hurt?" Dont give up. Dont give up. Dont give up. "Lweendo, Im going to sleep." "ok, sleep well my friend."
These are the last words we speak.
The Next Day.
More people visit. People are everywhere. I want them all to go away. Its too much for me to try and believe. I dont have any energy. I sit and stare at the sky. Im trying to relax but its pointless, doubt has poisoned my mind. At nightfall I walk to the house. Again I sit with the wives. Your eyes are different. Your lips are swollen. You shake your stiff body and spittle streams out the side of your teeth. As your mother spoons water in your mouth, she begins to cry. Im sitting in the corner. Why. Why. Why.
The Next Day.
There is no change in you. Only change on the faces of the women that love you. Finally my fear is mirrored. The wives ask me for tablets for the pain in their heads. I give them ibuprofen knowing it wont soothe their aching hearts.
They ask if Boss will come again. I say no. Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
Im ashamed. I want to run away. My heart burns with rage at the fact that there is nothing for your pain.
The Next Day.
I awake to the sound of gentle rain. Walking behind my house to hide between maize stalks. I stop and feel the droplets. Nature's tears mix with my own, swirling around my eyelashes. I cry out the Lord for strength. Knowing deep in my spirit that today is the day.
Inside the room in Big Mama's House. Your eyes are wide with fright. Your concave chest heaves moist breaths as if your swimming in a sea of disease. This morning the rain keeps the vistors away. So it is just your mother and me. But I dont think you know we are here. I think you only know the end is near.
You've lost control of your bodily functions and as we move you to the side your mom wipes the black plastic laid down as a sheet. The honesty of this moment penetrates my broken heart and numb mind. Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
The somberness of the day intensifies the rain as it strips from us the facade of a healing hope we all wore this past week. I sit in the corner of the room noticing the setting sun strike an array of colors through the window and into the mortar cracks cobwebbed across the walls.
Filled with emotion so intense that I fear the waves of anger and grief will swallow my sanity, I step outside praying for relief. In the middle of my words, in the middle of my requests: the wailing offends the tin roof like an onslaught of obscenities.
You died.
The Next Day.
Wailing continued throughout the night. Women, men, your children, your family. Running and screaming. Pleading and cursing. My feet found my way to my door. Inside my hut I found the peace to believe you are no more.
With daybreak the crowd gathered. Louder and louder the people from villages crawling on the ground, honoring your name. Alone in my hut, I cried all day. The wives told me to go to the house. To see you. But I refuse to see your dead body.
People come to pay their respects to me. Knocking on my door, all I want is privacy. I picked up my guitar to drown out the noise. And eventually in the afternoon I wandered outside.
Encouraging words to 'cry out the Lord' and 'feel no despair' pecked away at my calamity. At dusk, the vehicle brought the coffin and I cringed with every smack of the hammer sealing the lid with certainty. The mass of mourners stood to walk towards the freshly dug grave and along the way the pallbearers sang words of hope and grace.
We knelt around the grave and listened to the Man preach and pray. The men grabbed shovels and the women sang to drown out the echoes of dirt slapping the sides of the box tucking you carefully away into the soil of which you first came. An uncle was called upon to recount your history and towards the end he began to speak of me. He commended my attempts to save your life. He encouraged the community to comfort and continue to support me. Surprised and humbled I couldnt help but to weep. Thinking of a way for me to honor your memory.
The Next Day.
Wailing continued throughout the night. Women, men, your children, your family. Running and screaming. Pleading and cursing. The church gathered in front of the house. The choir sang. The preacher spoke. I spent the day writing you a song.
Its amazing, this complexity of grief. I smile at the thought of the sound of your voice. I cry at the fright of the last look in your eyes. I rage at the suddenness of your finality. I fear for my lonely months to come. Im thankful for every meaningless moment we spent under the sun.
At nightfall the wailing turned to melody. And our mourning turned to dancing. Somehow I was called upon to sing and perform my grief in song.
This would be a first for me. To stand in front of an assembly and sing. But for you, for your memory. I picked up my guitar and took a calming breath, then closed my eyes, to begin My Lament.

Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Sleep well my Friend

Burning Embers
As you slipped away
It was your last breath
That said you couldnt stay
Men dug your grave
So you can rest
Wont see your face
On this world again

Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Be still my Friend

Women wail
As I try to hide
The rain beats down
From the darkened sky
Children run to play
And though your gone
My spirit knows
That your memory lives on

Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Goodbye my Friend
Goodbye my Friend
Goodbye my Friend