Why do we love our dead more than the living?
No one should die alone, and worse still, be discovered days later, by chance.
On Wednesday this week, someone I know was found dead in her home. According to those in the know, she had been dead for at least three days before her body was discovered, a discovery that might have taken longer had neighbours not raised the alarm about a decaying odour emanating from her house.
When I heard the news after returning home late in the evening, a despondency I am still trying to shed off even as I write this came over me. After analysing this uncharacteristic melancholy I have been fighting since I received the sad news, I realised that it has largely been contributed by the disheartening incidents that took place during Wednesday’s protests. But I will not talk about the protests today, instead, I want to talk about dying alone.
I have thought about it and have come to the conclusion that dying alone, and then getting discovered days later, is the saddest thing that can happen to anyone, even if the person in mind was greatly disliked, perhaps because he (or she) sowed discord wherever he went and as a result could keep no friends.
Closer home, maybe he (or she) was disliked by his immediate family because he was cruel, unkind and uncaring towards them. Nevertheless, however ‘bad’ a person you may be, in your deathbed, as you take your last breath, you deserve at least one person by your side, and should there be no one at that moment, you shouldn’t lie there dead, undiscovered days later.
After coming to that conclusion, I got thinking about the relationships we human beings have with others, whether family or friends, and how important these relationships are. Important because in times of sorrow, mourning, and even celebration, these people that we are in various relationships with are the ones we expect to be by our side, offering their support, crying or laughing with us.
But this can only happen if you’re deliberate about watering these relationships - giving of your time, even money when called upon, because in your season of need, you will expect the same kind of help. And on your deathbed, if you were the turning-up kind, if you loved and cared for your family, the expectation is that at any given time, there will always be someone knocking on your door to check on you, or calling you to find out how you’re fairing.
I also got thinking about the relationship we Kenyans have with the dead. It is no secret that we love our dead. I dare say that we love them much more than we love the living.
I say this because even though you were an unlikeable person who people avoided and gossiped about and never visited when you die, there will be no shortage of people moving in and out of your home, and on your funeral, there will be so many people, the rented tents will not be enough to hold them, such that some will be seated on the grass humbly braving the scorching sun to give you a befitting send-off.
And they will have generously contributed to your burial expenses, never mind that when you were ailing, majority of the people standing around your grave gave nothing towards your hospital bill.
But I was talking about the indignity of dying alone. No one should die alone, and worse still, be discovered days later, by chance.