Stings of Death 2: Dear Alive People…

Emma had swayed like a pendulum bob between depression and schizophrenia. Many factors led to this state which I am not open to discuss. He is my mother’s first child, but my father’s second. He had just turned twenty-eight last May, the third. After many attempts, my mom and some aunties managed to trick him into rehab on the 12th of June. Shocking news came three days later that Emma had collapsed and died.

We suspected he had been overdosed some drug that calms victims. The post mortem report (which came through Friday, 4th August) indicates the cause of death as acute necrotizing pancreatitis leading to acute respiratory distress (or failure). In plain English, his pancreas tissues had died either through injury (by drugs), leading to its inflammation (interruption of blood supply to it).

Further explanation has it that once the pancreas is injured, it releases chemicals and digestive enzymes like proteases and lipases to the blood stream which when reach the lungs cause them to become stiff and unable to swell or constrict to allow in air, thus his collapsing…

I had just returned from a powerful service; thus, my mood was out the roof. From the shower, I found all my cousins within the sitting room, and my uncle holding his cheek in one of the sofas. My mother’s sister was sobbing loudly in her bedroom, and I broke the silence asking what was going on.

“Emma has died.” said Winnie, my cousin.

“Which Emma? My Emma?” I asked in denial, and bewildered

She nodded in shock.

Of course the rest of the stages of grief followed, but as usual, I considered the report I believed. Too sad, everyone went to their bedrooms. Emma had not had any physical or chronic sickness that we knew of; so, this was unbelievable.

At 10:30, I returned to the sitting room and began to pray for his resurrection. This is the third close person I’ve done this for. No matter how disappointing the other times have been, I told myself, that he’d be the first dead body I rise. I didn’t pick up phone calls that would swerve my faith. I avoided saying anything as the situation was. Remember the Shunammite woman? Even after her son had died, she didn’t admit it by speech. And in the long run, her son awoke again.

As I prayed, I’d hear what God wanted me to say at the burial. I ‘rebuked’ the thoughts, but the words kept coming. In the morning, early, my uncle and I were the first to view the body at the Mulago Hospital mortuary. A moment alone with the body I got, and I breathed over Emma’s face; declaring, “Breath of life… Emma come forth,” same lines Jesus used to summon Lazarus. I did what I knew I had.

We travelled home, vigil, and soon it was two in the afternoon the following day. We were miles away from home; towards the west, and the siblings were called to say something. I was handed the mic, and I had documented everything that had come to me from Thursday night. After the salutations, I began: (I had to cross from English, to a little ateso, since initially, my mother’s people were lost in the moderator’s language which was utter lunyoro: the language to my father’s people. For those, I added Luganda whenever I could so that I never lost anyone at any stage)

The first part of the speech was addressed to the youth and children. I told them to make their own money and not to feel entitled to any of their parents’ wealth (which to a certain degree, Emma expressed a lot). Emma had a grandiose belief that dad left some pile of gold somewhere that only mom knew about. Failing to recognize that that gold had already actually been translated into other income sources to facilitate our fees for the past few years drove him down a darker path.

The second beseeching to the youth and children was to honor their father or mother or any acting parent figure. Exodus 20:12 says in so doing, one will live a long, FULL life in the land …Honor is the recognition of importance or value. Sadly today, many young people don’t recognize that its their parents’ sweat that feeds them. Pride through entitlement creeps in, and they think it’s a guarantee for their parents to continue housing them, paying their fees, and even feeding them. It’s when one moves to a different place where they are kicked out unready that they appreciate how tolerant parents can be.

This doesn’t stop at early stages. The hardest part of growing up is being blinded by one’s ability to provide for themselves, such that they think they don’t need their parents that much anymore. Some others have had gruesome fights with their parents such that they don’t want to make up; but O, you’d rather be the first to break the ice, as opposed to receiving a phone call that that parent has exited this realm, and yet, you still held a grudge towards each other.

Forgiveness of self comes so hard at such points. So, celebrate the value your parents are, if not now, then remember the value they added to you when you couldn’t fend for yourself. Having one parent, I understand this aspect very much, and every opportunity I get, I try to out-do myself; On occasions such as birthdays, I gift mother bill payments that have caused her to open her mouth and bless me sincerely, causing my faster progress in life.

I then turned the address to the older generation. I said; “Mwegumye.”

That means ‘encourage or comfort each other.’

I meant this in the regard that the older have a language of their own, and so, that language can help them still in scenarios such as when their friends lose children or spouses.

I encouraged once more the elderly mainly (since the younger know how to do this efficiently); not to give up on their social life. Having one’s own house limits them from having sleepovers at a friend’s. Many fellow adults move houses, but those boundaries must be broken. Travel, if need be, to check on that friend. There’s place for a phone call, but seeing someone and talking face to face with them does something different to the emotions.

I don’t recall where I heard this, but research mentioned, that the longest living people drink much. It’s not that they have bad eating or drinking habits. The conclusion had it, that it is their social life that sustained them.

My pastor likes saying we must be intentional about celebration moments, as obituaries never give anyone a heads up that they are coming. My father partied a lot, but even if he didn’t live long, I remember him taking us out so often as kids for pork. He’s the example I used to concrete the matter about intentionality on social life.

Lastly, to all who were around, I took them back to school; and merely reminded those still in school about a yet stressing factor:“What makes us write exams well, is usually confidence. Confidence that we read.” I said. “In the same way, if you are to die, your loved ones need confidence. Confidence and assurance that you’re in a much better place which’s heaven, but how does that confidence come? Through Christ. When we know that you have Jesus, even if you kicked the bucket tomorrow (God forbid) we might be sad, but our comfort will be the surety of where you’ll currently be.”

I had to keep jumping to vernacular to ensure that I never lost anyone.

I then led everyone to the point of having Jesus. I don’t know if it was everyone, but I believe it was the majority. It was scary, but I’d rather persevere the scouring of nervousness than to lose another soul.

“Repeat after me,” I said “Dear Jesus — I can’t hear you — Dear Jesus (the mourners’ volume increased), save me from eternal peril by coming to my life. Be my Lord and savior today, as you were on the cross…”

I then said the same thing for the locals in Luganda, and they too followed suit. I greatly hope that at that point, God took advantage of one life, to save 500 to 1000 of those that were present. For I told them that our comfort was the confidence we have, that Emma knew the Lord, and so he’ll be seen again in glory.

I do hope, you the dear alive reader, picks a leaf, and leave your family and friends that very same confidence they’ll need when you depart. O how I do hope.

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John 14:6 Jesus said to him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.

John 17:3 And this is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.

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Last-lastly, I came across a song in this same season called People by a Cameroon Libianca. This is what part of the lyrics say;

I’ve been drinking more alcohol for the past five days
Did you check on me? Now, did you look for me?
I walked in the room, eyes are red, and I don’t smoke banga
Did you check on me? Did you check on me?
Now, did you notice me?

The song video showed a lonely lady, who prepared for friends to come over but they never did. Many texted back how busy they were. Even if the song isn’t the kind I enjoy listening to, its imagery is universal. At the little adulting I have so far tasted, this is the norm. We get too busy for others, but quickly show up with flowers when they descend five feet under…

Life is indeed like a breath. You may live longer, but another may live shorter. Make the most of time you have alive. Enjoy each other. Make time for each other. For I feel sad, having not sacrificed more time to check on Emma when he was trying to make meaning of life.

May God help us all. 🙏