Ode told from the Maroon Road

This                is    not                                  realistic                           of

post                       an      entirely                      reflection                  my         life.

I died last month; precisely 48 days ago. The many things about things and people I’d taken for granted finally caught up with me. Not that they really had to hassle or harry to get to me; I’d been shuffling my feet on a million mile marathon track…running the hundred and ten metre hurdles backwards in an Olympic size pool.

What's the point?

To be honest, life in the hereafter isn’t all that different from what lay before it. How else do you think am blogging about it? Only problem is, it feels a whole lot of bit like am a taxi-driver that’s lost his prefix, yet still has to get home at the end of the day. There’s no jav to be stuck in, kicking it with the pervs in a match made on Facebook. Lonely road I walk now.

I make my way to my home, peek through the windows and stare at the wall; stare at the photos, memories burned with innuendo in their background. I sift through all the litter it’s collected this past thousand hundred and fifty two hours. I had a lovely life, I realize, an unparalleled wife and perfect kids. The kinda perfection only an empty backpack could give; the blessing of bachelorhood.

Looking at my wall, it’s not easy to profile the man I was. I’d been stuck in traffic for the most part; my social life clogged with an impeding lack of motion. Clearly I got off the jav just when the traffic was cocking its piece, looking to pull the trigger. How else would you explain this notification?

Xavier Man’sin, Cyclops Redhead, Wolverine Fisi and 470 other friends posted on your wall.

About 400 others have straight-liked some of these same posts. Hmmm. 30 pokes. Yet I’ve only been gone about a thousand hours. More action in my absence than I had in my restrained presence.

Am making friends too. Power of globalization that; turning the world and what lies underneath it into a tiny village. Pity I  can’t quite click the ‘add as friend’ button; like a spectator in an online console, all I can do is watch. Like an ardent Arsenal fan in the stands I can only hope to cheer when one of the passes I had made in my mind actually meets a willing boot and a goal is scored; I had, after all, about twenty sent friend requests pending.

Curious. So many positive eulogies on my wall. ‘Yule Mbois Mndialala this, Yule M2 that.’ Surely there has to be at least one suppressed ‘Yule M2 no that’ in there. I smile inwardly, and the warmth sparkles for an instant in my intrepidly fallen crest.

I was an A-hole. Full full condition. Looking at one of the posts through a squinted eyeball – I lost the other on my way here – I cannot help but muse at the absurdity that belies the hypocrisy of the security that derives from knowing that the only person who can disprove your theory on how close you were to them is gone. What my ex means to say on that glowing paste on my character and joy of living is this:

Yule Dame Mndias > Yule Mbois Mndias

We were kinda going out. So we only kinda broke up. No really broke up. There was nothing to break. The last vestiges of the thing they claim once pumped channels of emotion through you have already long been crushed into redundant morsels. I can’t hate you, but I can’t stand you either. Don’t expect the immolate* crumbs of your heart to play adhesive tricks on my mind again, coz the rough and dog-eared edges on the pages of my heart can’t take any more chaffing. Cold is the only sense that can make mission now, and since you’re stuck in it now, I guess we’re even.

                                    # XoXo, Bummer

                                    The ham your Karma used

For harm-practice.

Anyway, social routine demands that we respect the dead, lest they haunt our chatlines with a random online status here, and a crazy poke there. If I could I would, pop up while you’re chatting with a big ‘wassup!’ on your IM. It’s only fair. After all, communication is not complete without feedback. Yule M2 likes your post on his wall. Maybe that’d freak the senses back into you, stop you from colouring my wall a pale shade of pointless when am gone.

Time to log off, shift my weight in these planks that surround me.  Good thing my sense of smell died with me, coz it doesn’t look seem it’d be too amused in here. Now am gone, signed out. Go on, mourn; but don't carry on, take an endless time out coz where am at they don let us log back on. Twas fun, Facebook. Let me be.

#Moral: Part 1 of the last ndialala will and testament – don’t post stuff on my wall when am gone. Eulogies –if they must – are to be reserved for one day and one day only, and not turned into an online network face condolence book. This is a reminder; when that day comes, be forewarned! I kill you!

Ahmed the Dead Terrorist