Loss comes in many shapes. It could be the old lady mourning the loss of her only son. This loss is loud. She convulses all the way to sleep. Such loss cannot be exorcised. Food will never taste the same, and her nightmares only multiply. She carries this loss to the grave.
Sometimes loss is a whisper. You will find it in Mrs. Atuma's mouth on Sunday. She mumbles a prayer for her husband who is under the spell of the bottle. And he beats her....oh! he beats her. This is a prayer for lost peace: "save me, Lord.. Show him the light.".
Loss walks in the streets. Where men hide in the day, away from their families - lest they reveal their joblessness & alarm their progeny. They mourn the loss of dignity in the eyes of fellow men. They mourn the loss of amenities. Loss has them up all night...and day!
Loss has made a home of men. They give their best years to their families only to discover that their wives slept with the watchman. And that the blood running in their sons' veins are not theirs. They lose motivation, they lose willpower, and lastly, they lose their lives.
Once I found loss lurking in a young girl's eyes. Tucked inside the hospital bed. 7 years old, they said. Her glazed eyes betrayed her pain. The assailant caught up with her in the evening. When he was done he left her for the dead. I gritted my teeth. I was afraid I'd break down
Loss comes to me sometimes. When the doctor rings in the evening to say: "she is getting worse T", & I have to cling onto the pillows for dear life. I'd like my mother to live a little longer. But loss thinks otherwise. I whisper, "loss, just one more year...just one more year."
Loss harvests where it has not sown. It does not care for propriety. We have all lost something, & are suffering for it. Loss does not walk naked: it is dressed as a rapist, a coffin, and sometimes, as a lover. Loss will not hear reason. It will not suffer patience. Loss takes!
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