As a child I sang along the tune "don't scatter roses after I am gone" sorrowfully, slowly and as sadly as I could be,
trying to match the perfect alto voice since soprano don't work well in such deep tunes.
That was when I discovered that music doesn't always need to have instruments, that accapella were best done by a group of men, sexist? maybe,
that death wasn't as scary, horror movies were.
I was 17 years old then.
Twelve years later, I hear equal stories of deaths to the baby showers I attend.
Last month, my friend's friend passed on,
Every Facebook page I opened that day had his happy photos, re-shared photos from friends who had no time to like his original share.
One rose scattered
Another friend had changed his profile picture to the late's profile picture
Another rose scattered
In disbelief of the level of hypocrisy in men, I closed down my page,
In deep thoughts I felt his pain; the deep pain of the bloody knife drilling through his ribs. It was horrifying.
I get interrupted, it's a whatsapp message. I have just been added in a group " friends of Lee"
I can't believe this! Another freaking rose.
By now I am sure Lee's spirit isn't feeling honored at all,
It's feeling sick,
Sick to death.
What is death?
Scientists say death is to cease to exist
Reincarnation fans say it's a passage to a new birth,
Optimists say it's an awakening, while
Christians say its an never ending sleep.
Confused? Me too,
Death is pain.
Brutal, unexpected hard pain
Especially for the dead.
The dead in spirit like the immediate family of the deceased,
The dead in mind like the real friends of the deceased,
The dead in heart like the love of his life,
The dead in soul, the dead himself
So, spare them the scattered roses,
They can't hold them,
They can't lift them towards their noses to feel their scent,
The can't miss that thorn that always pricks the little finger,
Gone are the days one died at 101,
Gone are the days one died in their sleep,
Gone are the days children buried their parents at old age,
Gone are the days fires, floods took away lives and we held national prayers.
Now, death is brutal, disfigured and prejudice
Road accidents are our daily news,
Parents are molesting their children to their death beds,
Children are killing their parents in maternity wards,
Gun related crimes have evolved to sexual orientation crimes,
Bombs are now in countries with no gold and with freedom of worship.
And we have programs on TV about 1000 ways to die
So, a paragraph narrative on how I died is a rose,
Don't pluck it!
your miserable RIP statement is a rose,
Don't start the scatter!
Your like of that old of me now while am gone is a rose
The whatsapp group is a thorny rose,
And your black dress on my important day is a ugly rose
Your fund raising committee is the bunch of roses.
Don't scatter them!
I beg of you to restrain yourself
Give them to me when I carry on....