THE COLOUR OF DEATH – BY ESTHER YILA

I remember the first time it came
The cries of my mother
The irregular shaking of my father
My elder sister crying hysterically
I remember the amount of shoes at the front of our door
I called them uncountable that day
I remember the embrace of different people telling me Sorry
Sorry for what? I thought
I was the one always saying sorry
And I remember Dauda on the floor
And I wondered how he could sleep with all this noise.

The second time it came
This time, Father cried
And he held me close
This time the shoes outside did not matter
I barely noticed them
The embraces were the same, clean and sweaty,  fat and slim, bodies alike
They all said sorry
I wondered why they still said  it
It would not bring back
Mama and Adda
Lying cold on the floor
No amount of noise could have brought them back

The third time it came
Everyone around me cried
I buried my head in my husband’s chest
And he held me close
This time,  the shoes did not count
The faces,  new and old
Told me it was ok
He had lived a long life
He had gone to be with the Lord
This time Baba did not lie on the floor
He laid in a casket , cold and wrinkled,  six feet deep
No amount of noise in the world will wake him.

The fourth time it came,
The sound of my screams,
The metallic taste  in my mouth
The smell of burnt skin
The feel of fire licking my skin
The sight of my husband being restrained, bloodstained as he was.
This time there were no shoes outside
This time no one could embrace me
This time I won’t  cry
This time the word sorry would not be said to me
This time my body will lie cold, burnt and lifeless
This time no amount of noise  will be able to wake me up

By Esther Yila

About Me

I’m a story teller. I enjoy listening to music and reading.

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Contact – 08092062700
Instagram – _togoryamba