Of Dream’s Elder Sister

There is a little known graphic novel called "The Sandman" by Neil Gaiman that will always speak to me. Within its pages lies the entire history of mankind and perhaps its future. The protagonist of this classic piece of literature is "Dream" who is the ruler of the realm of dreams. He is one of "The Endless", a family of seven beings who rule the realms of human emotion and experience. I will always be fascinated by Dream's elder sister Death and Neil Gaiman's presentation of a phenomenon that has shaped human lives throughout the ages. Death is a very big part of life for without one the other would have no meaning just like God and the Devil. Gaiman presents death not as the life sucking grim reaper of many a horror movie but rather as a gateway or guide to the beyond. The premise is simple, no one truly knows what comes after this life, we invent Gods and Devils to justify our actions here and hope that these worlds we create will come to pass but we cannot truly know until our time is come. Therefore death, for me, will always be a release from this life and a beginning of my next great adventure.

It is only human that we grieve for those who have gone before, for when they pass on, they take our dreams with them and we must build new ones as long as we draw breath. Yet these people have served to teach us things about life. We should all be better people in their memories. We should dedicate our lives to making them proud of us and hope that wherever they may be, they will look upon our deeds and smile.

The first death I ever experienced was my father's; I was about eight years old and my world experience was only that much. I didn't really know my father because I can list you the things that I know about him on one hand. I know him as Nestor Banyenzaki of Nyakijumba, Kabale. I know that he had a lovely smile. I know that he was one of the founder members of TASO. I know that he was unfaithful to my mother and that he loved music. That is about all I know of the man whose blood runs through my veins. I wish I had had the maturity then to engage in a conversation about death with him, I imagine I would have learnt something.

I remember seeing his coffin; it was wooden with a little glass window through which I could see his face, pale and cold, his nose stuffed with cotton wool. I remember a subtle smell that I have never been able to identify but which I consider to be "the smell of death". It has haunted me, that damn smell. Perhaps it was that first death that taught me that "life goes on" because life for me proceeded normally after my father's death. I did not grieve for him, I hardly knew him.

The last time I talked to my mother was to say bye for a few days, she was so sick that she had to be taken to the hospital. Whatever was eating her from the inside was taking her mind because she didn't seem to recognise us as we stood beside her bed gently whispering goodbye. My brothers and I had been told that we were going to stay with Uncle Warren for a few days while Mommy was in the hospital. Little did we know it was the last time we would see her alive. I have forever felt guilty for wanting to leave, the fact that she wasn't making sense made me uncomfortable and I wanted to be elsewhere so I welcomed the idea of spending some time with my cousins. I should have stayed, if only I had known, I would have stayed.

Her funeral was held at All Saints Cathedral, my brothers and I arrived on the back of a pickup. I guess the enormity of the situation had not registered for me because a woman came to my brother weeping and I couldn't help but smile at my brother's discomfort. I remember being asked to stand up in church so that everyone could see us, I remember Uncle Godfrey giving the eulogy but not its content. I remember standing over her coffin the night before her burial and Aunt Noerine saying to me, "death robs you of your childhood." I remember standing over her grave as they put her in the ground, whispering "goodbye mommy" at Aunt Noerine's insistence.

I felt the first pang of loss a few weeks later; I was looking out the second floor window of my uncle's flat and it hit me that I would never see her again. I wanted to jump out the window; I wondered whether the drop would be enough to kill me or whether I would simply reap further undue pain and trouble. It was the first time I longed for death.

Four years later, as I trawled the streets of Kampala one Friday night looking for a place to lay my head, I longed for death yet again. My life had come to a point where I was homeless. As a teenager I could not help but be rebellious, such is the nature of human beings. I drove my uncle up a wall until he had no choice but to send me away from his home. The precipitating factor was a heartfelt letter I had written to him during the school term. I was tired of lectures from him and longed for simple understanding. I told him as much and pointed out to him that saying such words as "fuck you" would serve to teach me nothing good. In anger, he photocopied my letter and sent it to all my relatives. I was labelled ungrateful and undeserving of any kindness. Shortly after this incident, Uncle Warren came to visit Gordon and me at school. He relayed Uncle Godfrey's wishes that I not return to his home. When school closed that term, Gordon asked me what I would do and I told him that I did not know. I left SMACK that Friday and headed to an uncertain future, my plan was to go to one of my father's brothers and find shelter. I found none there; I was turned away and told to run back to Uncle Godfrey and apologise for my mistakes. At no point did anyone ask why I had written the letter and what problems I had. I met my classmate, Lemo Ronald after having been turned away from my place of last resort, in Bugolobi, and on discovering that he stayed in the flats, asked if I could keep my belongings with him for a while. I had made a similar request of my aunt but she had declined and it was pointed out for me that day that a friend will always be there for you, something that I would learn in earnest the following day.

Yes, I have been on the streets, I know what it feels like, I have seen a side of life that many have not and I am that much better for knowing it. Many would wonder why I did not simply apologize to my uncle and do my time in his house but upon reflection I guess I have never been one to take the easy road. I was ready to die with certain beliefs in my heart; I believed I was owed a little happiness, just a little bit. I trawled the streets of Kampala looking for a place to lie down and make the hardest decisions of my life. There is a class system complete with property rights out there, you don't just chill on anyone's corner. I was bounced from Kampala road all the way to Lugogo stadium, where I finally lay me down. I was resigned to taking my own life and then I remembered I had a friend named Roger. Perhaps I had mentioned my predicament to Roger earlier, I do not remember but I decided I would talk to him the following morning and make one last throw of the die. Thus I spent my night on the streets, in a green field underneath the stars, conversing with Dream's elder sister, Death. That is how Roger took me, gave me a second chance and a different life. How he became my brother from another mother. I would not be here if it wasn't for him. He gave me a home and family when I needed one. He was under no obligation to do me any favours, despite attempts to prove to me otherwise by my uncle, my belief in the innate kindness of people held firm.

I don't have any grudge with my uncle; I think he did not trust that I would understand if he explained things to me. He was prone to the old belief that children must never question their elders. I washed my hands of anger and decided to start afresh. I remember standing over the flames of my diary, something I regret now for in it were my original musings on God and religion, complete with the plight of my ancestors thrown into the equation. I let go of all my anger then, I decided to learn the lessons life had taught me hitherto and move on with my life in search of knowledge and dreams.

When Geri's little brother Semei died, I knew that there was not much I could say. When her dad passed on, all I could do was sit at the back of the church and cry. When my little sister Anne died, I wanted to take everything I had and throw it at life. I wondered what lessons it was trying to teach me. Why did death taunt me? She hurt those I loved instead. I had already given her my "pound of flesh", what more could She take from me? I moved on promising myself that an answer was out there to be found.

Then She came for my dreams and I watched in despair as She took the very last bits of me and the lesson was finally learnt. Peace, let there be peace among us, for we will all die one day and we will take naught else with us but the love and friendship of those we have known. I am resigned to preach it from the rooftops, that there must peace among us. Let us not make each other's lives unnecessarily harder. Life will do a good job on its own.

We last talked in a foreign land, She offered to take me but I told her life still owed me. It still owes me and I will collect!