THE DYING MAN

Life is short.

That is the biggest understatement, ever.

However, I concede that life doesn't look short when you start out; life is short in hindsight.

I vividly remember the day I left home. It was a wet Saturday morning in the month of July, and the streets were deserted- the clouds painted a picture of the promise of heavy rainfall, the downpour of the previous day notwithstanding. Only the chickens were about in the compound. I could hear a faint jingle of the bells in the distance. It had to be from the shiny bicycle that belonged to Ejike the palm wine tapper.

I had a shirt on my back. Funny, I still have the shirt, or what is left of it. I have kept the shirt all these years. It reminds me of where I come from. I had denim pants on, and a Bagco sack. That was all I had. All I knew was the name of the place I was going to. I did not know what the world held in store for me. But I had heard about the Capital, Lagos. About how it was a land of opportunities, and how people became rich.

I never saw Mama, Papa, or little Ngozi again. I chose to see the world, and left my family behind. You see, there was no video call, GSM technology or internet. It seems to be such a long time ago. And my village did not have a post office. All letters to my village were addressed to the Igwe's Palace. From there, the addresses would be identified and letters were delivered by the palace messengers. The world has come a long way from such primitive methods of communication, the children of this generation would never understand.

My friends through the years have always asked about my family. I do not know what happened to them. But the village got razed during the civil war and I have not heard of anyone who got out alive. I do not like to talk about it. So I conducted a funeral for my family in my mind and tell everyone that cares to ask that they are dead.

Over the years I kept seeing their faces once in a while. I once saw a young girl after I had spent like ten years in Lagos. She looked so much like Ngozi would look at that age. But it was fleeting. The next moment, she was gone.

I am dying.

When the doctor told me, I felt the urge to see Mama, Papa and Ngozi again. I told my son to pay for announcements in all major newspapers about the story of my missing family and we fixed reward for any convincing information at five million naira. To see them once again, i would give everything. I had all the money I had ever wanted but I longed for my family. I know it sounds stupid, but I began to regret leaving home those forty years ago.

My son tells me hundreds of people have turned up, claiming to be Papa, Mama or Ngozi. Some had come in groups of Papa, Mama and an Ngozi. It is not unconnected to the fact that I am one of the wealthiest men in the country. I have been unable to see any of them. My condition has worsened rapidly and the doctor thinks I have less than a week before my body fails me. I know deep within myself that the likelihood that they’re dead is very high. But I am a dying man, and hope is all I have left.

I reminisce about the fine moments of my life. The fine smell of petrichor before rain in the village. I remember Ngozi’s mischievious laughter. The first time I kissed a woman. The day I made my first million. The days my children were born. The time I completed my first hostile takeover. I remember my pet dog when I was in the village.

I have regrets about my life. But I do not wish to dwell on them.
I am running out of time. It is a blessing to know when you will die. It has given me the opportunity to evaluate my life. And weigh my decisions. I also noticed that people are unusually nice to you if they know you will soon die. I do not like it. I don’t just like the idea.
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I have been unable to eat for the past twelve hours.
The doctors have made a fuss over it and they already left.
I am grateful for my trusted secretary Martha who is helping me put my thoughts down. My son has gone to talk to the doctors. I had to insist my daughters leave, I couldnt bear to see them in tears. Was I dead yet? Was this how they would be crying when I die? In my anger, I told them if any of them cried like that at my burial, I would get up and smack such a person silly. I don’t think what I said was nice.

I am the one dying. Why are they crying?
The meds are really affecting my thinking. The doctors told me they were prescribed to suppress my pain but they have also succeeded in surpressing my brain. Thinking is hard.
"Martha, tell my son I don’t want to be on this meds again. I want to die with a clear head."
I thank my Chi for all I have achieved in life. I will continue this story when I wake. I feel so tired... I want to rest.
"Martha, dont forget to tell my son..."
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ANNOUNCEMENT!

We announce the death of our dearly beloved Father...