by Anesu Mukombiwa
“It does not matter what we do—perhaps we argue about the patriarchy and my mother and I demolish the boys’ argument. Perhaps we watch the rain and speak of Western politics. Perhaps we tease him for being so old and he pities us for being so young—but we are together.”
Writing as process.
Writing as a way of muddling through.
This version of his death occurs on a good day. There is laughter and banter and beer.
There are wrinkles in the corners of his eyes now and I’m glad he looks this way, I’m glad he is older and softer and still here. Even as his voice quivers a low baritone now, it still possesses that commanding tone that could instantly reduce my brothers and I to silence. He can still make us listen. He isn’t any less of the man we knew him to be now—in fact, he is more. Unencumbered by the toil of guiding and providing for a family, he can finally move back to his childhood home in the country with his love, a dream he spoke frequently about.
It happens on a day when we know to expect it. God tells us it will happen and so we are prepared.
On this day, my brothers and I decide to carpool to the house on a blistering summer day. We stop frequently on the road to pick up some of my father’s favourite things—some fire roasted corn from the vendors on the side of the road, some ripe mangos from Food Lovers’ Market square, some Maheu from the Murehwa growth point. We blast reggae music and all sing our own personalized version of the lyrics like he taught us to. He always used to say he was ‘editing the song’ to make it better.
When we get there, we find him and my mother curled up on the porch on a rukukwe. His face lights up as we all tumble out of the car, bearing the trinkets of his joy. On this day we have time to be together. It does not matter what we do—perhaps we argue about the patriarchy and my mother and I demolish the boys’ argument. Perhaps we watch the rain and speak of Western politics. Perhaps we tease him for being so old and he pities us for being so young—but we are together.
When finally, we are satisfied, when we feel there is nothing more to be shared, we say our goodbyes. I thank him for teaching me a love that clothes and cultivates. A love that can be tasted in an apologetic cup of lemon tea after a silly fight; a love that humbles itself for the sake of its children. I thank him for being my best friend.
In this version of his death, I am there.
There is another version, the one my aunt recounts to me on the phone. It is the one where he suffers a heart attack in the parking lot of the Mbuya Dorcas hospital, mere feet away from the building that saves lives. It is the one where my mother watches in disbelief as he breathes his last in my uncle’s arms. It is the one where I ignore his last two calls.
The one where I never get to say goodbye.
These are the real lyrics, the ones my brothers and I refuse to sing.
I am editing the song to make it better.
Coming to terms with our present reality involves forfeiting the many alternative realities we wished for instead—it involves laying down the what ifs. But considering what could have been is a great way to accept what is.
Anesu Mukombiwa is a multimedia storyteller and communicator from Harare, Zimbabwe. While her primary medium is creative nonfiction writing, her passion for storytelling has driven her to explore a variety of other forms, including videography, video editing, and audio editing. Currently, she lives and works in Boston, MA, as a Social Media Coordinator for College Year in Athens, a Greece-based study abroad program.