SHORT STORY

In Loving Memory Short Story by Ananiya Alick Ponje Wongani’s mother lit three candles and placed them each in front of herself, her husband and her daughter. “I’m always fond of candles. In the past, after every long and tiring journey, I would light a candle and watch its tiny flame gutter and all the lethargy and fatigue would seep out of me. And now it takes me down the lane of distant memories and life is just like a fantasy.” Her hands were trembling. She picked her Bible, held it in her hands tightly before dropping it down again. Looking at her husband, she said, “Fill your glass with this table wine and drink it as a very special thing this hour. There shall never be a time like this in the future to come. Do it so that wherever you shall be, you will remember the time that we have lived together.” She turned to her daughter and said, “Wongani, my dear daughter, take your glass of wine and drink it so that you will always bring to mind this short time that we have lived together. No more tales of woe on my part.” At first, Wongani had thought that perhaps her mother had decided to call it quits with her father, but when she told her the same thing that she had told him, she began to look askance at the whole scenario. “Mum, you have no power to know what will happen in your life.” Yet deep in the recesses of her heart, she was terribly perturbed. “I wish I had.” Wongani left for school at Ibanda International High School. Behind, her mother had been diagnosed with cerebral malaria and she died three days later. Her husband could hardly understand what had happened. How could she predict her own death? People gathered at the funeral compound like a desert of lapwings within a very short period of time, while at school, Wongani knew nothing about what had happened to her mother. She had seen the ambulance twice and had heard its blaring siren on the high road but it had never come into her mind that her mother might be the victim. When she returned home after being called, her father took her aside and told her that her dear mother was no more. Silently a tear dropped from her eye. How could he have softened the brow? This tranquil evening, Wongani opened the door of her clothes closet after four days since her mother’s demise. Her eyes immediately landed on an old box made of pieces of wood. It was tied with blue and yellow ribbons and on one side of it there was stuck a gleaming piece of paper with the words: This memory box is for you Wongani. Her hand was still clutched at the brass doorknob and her whole body trembled with terror. What might be in the box? She asked herself. Plucking up her courage, she pulled the box into the middle of her room where she untied the ribbons. She saw a pair of her departed mother’s best kitten heels, a taupe loose frock that she had put on three weeks ago during Wongani’s eleventh birthday. Her bible and three A4 size papers covered with rough scripts were placed beneath the frock. Picking one paper, she held it in her hand and began to read it silently. “During funerals everyone is crying for their own death, mourning their own soul, that’s why the grief should transform every mourner’s life. My dear Wongani, in life, it’s better to bear your own anguish with fortitude.” After reading that part, her grief-stricken face instantly broke into a gentle smile. Then she continued reading: “Instructions from a mother are the future garlands to grace the daughter’s head and a necklace to embellish her neck, but when a mother dies in her prime, dreams are shattered. “Wherever you go, proclaim with the highest degree of vehemence that the Lord is the controller of your destiny. In silent memories, I’ll always remember you. I was fighting a very big battle and death’s my victory. Death’s life’s hardest reality but it’s the only way into the afterlife. For me, another life has begun. I’ll no longer smile with you; I’ll no longer prickle you, but I’ll always pray for the grace of our lord Jesus Christ to be upon you always. “It has happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to bide you farewell, but at least the memory box contains part of the contents of my heart. Build your faith strongly in the Lord during this trying period. Don’t say that a dark cloud has fallen upon you; rather say a shining sun has risen for my death should mark the beginning of a new life for you. “In your deepest memories, remember me through the good things I did, the way I looked. Only look at the positive part of my life. Nurture your potentials and always read the Bible.” Wongani picked the last paper and continued reading: “Wongani, nightmares come to remind us that even in perfect livelihood, there is a trace of failure. I began to feel death’s cold hands embracing me many years ago when I was found with the virus that causes the deadly pandemic that is threatening to wipe away the whole human race. I’ve finally reached the end of my road. “Just accept what you are and embrace what you have. There is no success without peace and no victory without tribulations. None die earlier than when they are supposed to die; that is the principle of life. Don’t fear your death because you cannot evade it. It’s useless trying to fear what you cannot avoid. It’ll find you, whatever the case. Death is for human beings and surely all human beings are going to die but everyone dies their own death. Even in a suicide pact, a fatal road carnage, a massacre, everyone dies their own death. “Rely on the Lord for he’s the only pillar of hope that doesn’t keel over in tempests. Always try to listen to your heart because it has something to tell you. Above everything, take care of your life so that you will not die of so many diseases like I have done. God be with you always. “Your mother, Tami.” She lay down in her bed and breathed hard. In her lifetime, her mother had never told her that she was HIV positive. She decided that it had been by fair means or foul because she knew that it could have affected her psychologically. Spreading the frock on the slippery floor, she looked at it and shook her head. Then she picked her pen and the clipboard and with her trembling right hand began to write something. When she had finished, it read: “mum, putting me in my favourable state was not a simple thing, I know but you tried all your best. You always said to you I was a very valuable person although I am physically impaired. Now I sit on my bed, cold brisk tears running down my cheeks, not knowing what to do and where to go. Dad is terribly sick and I don’t know what to do. But in the midst all the misery I am in, I pray to God that we will meet again in his holy kingdom one day. “My memories are twisted and my soul is faint. Your death has since brought me to a pause that seems to last forever. I keep on reflecting on what life means when it is so brief. You were my rose flower, shining relentlessly like the setting golden sun. Your sudden departure can be likened to a burning candle whose strong flame has been snuffed out so easily.” “Oh, my God,” Wongani cried. Folding the paper, she threw it into the box. Then she picked it again and walked to her mother’s tomb where she laid it as the heavens opened. Thunder howled and lightning struck and frogs croaked. The night was splintered with all sorts of spring noises. After returning to the house, Wongani seemed to get over the bitter feeling she had had since her mother had been interred. She decided that it had happened and it could not be reversed.