There is a sad silence about my soul these last few days; a pause of reality in an otherwise endless going of doing that makes no demand for understanding. Each day is a test of my strength to face my decisions, to deal with the consequences, to accept the changes and find the strength to mourn them. Putting ones head back into ‘doing’ finds the easy comfort of denial. Anyone who has ever said goodbye will know the heart-pulls of the days leading up to it. Days when ones stomach is warm inside, with the bitter feeling of anticipation; where hands shake with unsteady nerves and the heavy feeling of Lost follows you like a shadow.
My goodbyes have started, despite my anticipation of its coming. Last week, I sat with seven hundred others under the shade of acacia trees overlooking the Monduli hills. Hulda Ayoub Zelote, cleansed of wrinkles and shrouded warmly in her coffin, lay while we filed past, bidding farewell with a nod of our heads, aware of the crowd. Two older men, one supporting the other and his stick, walked slowly Рpainfully Рup last. They approached the coffin in careful steps, aware of the uneven ground. One steadied the other and, slightly leaning forward, they bowed to her in perfect sychronisation. That mythical lump of clich̩ appeared in my throat: an incredibly moving moment to see men, whose age alone commands respect, honouring a woman, and a Maasai at that, when Maasai women are truly at the end of the political food chain.
My goodbyes have started, despite my anticipation of its coming. Last week, I sat with seven hundred others under the shade of acacia trees overlooking the Monduli hills. Hulda Ayoub Zelote, cleansed of wrinkles and shrouded warmly in her coffin, lay while we filed past, bidding farewell with a nod of our heads, aware of the crowd. Two older men, one supporting the other and his stick, walked slowly Рpainfully Рup last. They approached the coffin in careful steps, aware of the uneven ground. One steadied the other and, slightly leaning forward, they bowed to her in perfect sychronisation. That mythical lump of clich̩ appeared in my throat: an incredibly moving moment to see men, whose age alone commands respect, honouring a woman, and a Maasai at that, when Maasai women are truly at the end of the political food chain.
Perhaps the pause of reality commanded by death strips away the prejudice that comes with doing life; perhaps prejudice is born when doing life makes no demand for understanding. Either way, the harshness of reality facing me now may be painful, but it is fresh and real and the doing of it will be heartfelt, demanding the thought and understanding it deserves.
