1kg baby born at our facility to a mom with an illness, which triggered the untimely arrival of simply nothing less than a fighter. She stayed alive for 10 days while I asked repeatedly the mom to hop upon the makeshift ambulance to the bigger health centre south of us and stayed alive while her mom refused to bop due to incalculable contingencies. Encumbrances, hardship, burdens, brutal realities ALL SORROWFUL WORDS. When premature her finally succumbed to the intraventricular haemorrhage she had an appointment with and I was present to witness her painful farewell, I ponder how I cannot feel responsible for not fighting more, for not plainly forcing her mom to go? How does she walk away bearing the blame and denouement, and how do I walk away bearing culpability? No sun shining. No moon out to play. Darkness drowns us. I don’t have the answer and I especially don’t like the question. However I'm the contestant in this quiz show and the prize is elusive.
I grieve for the little one. I lament for the future her lost. For the loss of her running her perfect fingers down someone's thigh, for her walking with one sleeve rolled up, for her drinking coffee sneaking a smoke reading a newspaper, for her looking at her toes when she dances, for her laugh at her own jokes, for her chance to carry her niece or nephew on her back, for her loss to ever look intently into some man's eyes as if he were her world, for her outlook at the world with smiley eyes, for her never sweeping a dust off a dust floor, for her loss to eat good food with her fingers. I grieve trying to see her try to pin the flavour of a good drink, to see her sing along to a tune only she knows, see her while she draws, see her while she makes minute little structures, see her at a typical Friday family lunch dish, see her when she smiles in her sleep, see her howl, see her try, see her dream, see her in the spotlight, see her just laugh, see her in her private universe, see her climb an apple tree, see her run for shelter in the rainy season, see her take pleasure in someone's 47 flavours, see her mellow her mind, see her say goodbye, see her ask why, see her ache a little, see her in spring, see her sing about it, see her tap your feet and roll her fingers, to see her long to eat banana pancakes, see her cling to her dreams, see her behold a schoolboy, see her watch night fall, see her whistle. I crave to see her tired out, see her reach down for the sweet stuff, see her in side street howling Kawaga, see her higher than the moon, see her needed, see her needing someone, see her marvel at a set of rosary beads, see her review her future job description, see her try to escape the tsetse fly, see her forget to tell herself something, see her tell herself something, see her waste time, see her making coffee, see her listen to dogs barking at the break of dawn, see her go through a metal detector, see her plunge into a cool river. I miss her already. I pine to see her again, to see her believe in the future, see her kiss a daisy under a dust storm, see her go to doctor to heal her brokenness. I grieve for the passing of her chance to kiss, to be faithless, to be thoughtless, to be lucky as one can be, to dress up in a dress, ah to see her in a dress and headscarf when she 3 years old. I guess she will never be sad, never be too late, never get to fan a bee, sit on a bees knee, be the bees knees, she'll never have someone see her when no one is there, never have a wedding day, never win the lottery, never scratch a itch, never ponder the marvel of non-smoking signs, never hem her socks, never play with tools like a fool, never touch with the finest gesture of tenderness you can find. She is not anymore. They say the blind and seeing are equal but I guess the live and the departed are not.