Surely, God can't allow his old mother to bury him

 

He has been coughing the whole night. Deep guttural coughs that painfully scratch his throat.

It is way past midnight and you’ve been awake, listening to him cough, worried.

You look over to your sister and see her phone screen is on. Like you, she is worried but trying to distract herself.

You ask her how long dad has been coughing and she tells you since last week. You’re both quiet then she admits what you’ve both been thinking - it’s Covid and she’s scared as he’s old and diabetic.

To distract yourself, you start reading a book a friend recommended, but you’re not in the right headspace, so you play a game instead. Temple Run or Candy Crush will do.

The coughing seems to get worse, providing an eerie background noise in the dead of the night. You start bargaining with God, telling Him to wait until you finish school, get a stable job. You also remind Him that his mother, your grandmother is still alive. Surely, He can’t allow his old mother to bury him.

He coughs again, a bout of coughs that last almost five minutes. At this point you lower your bargain, you had asked God to add him 20 more years, but now you you’re fine with ten.

You think about bringing him a glass of warm water or the Covid dawa your mum had made, but you don’t since it might be inappropriate to walk into your parents’ bedroom at night. So you go back to bargaining with God. You make promises you both know you won’t keep. But you’re desperate. You resort to saying Hail Mary’s, amping up your piety each time he coughs. You never close your eyes while praying, but this time, you do.

You can’t remember at what point exactly you fell asleep, but it had been after 6am. Your sister wakes you up with threats of leaving you. It’s Sunday and she’s already dressed and ready for church. You drag yourself out of bed and head to the bathroom, on your way, you hear your dad downstairs chatting happily and you silently thank God.

On your way to church, you keenly observe him, your doctor instincts kicking in. He looks better than the previous night and it also hits you he has not coughed once.

You ask him how he’s feeling and he says the meds you gave him worked and he is much better. Even though you’re tired and sleepy, your bargain worked. Staying up the whole night had been worth it.

After church, you all have breakfast together, a Sunday family tradition. Your dad seems to be in a hurry, curious; you ask him if he is going somewhere. He tells you, with a lot of excitement, that he’s going for a harambee. He is the guest of honour, he says proudly, so he can’t dare miss it.

You want to slap him.

You want to take his car keys and throw them away.

You want to burn all his shoes.

The only thing you can do, however, is try to talk him out of it. You go on a lengthy lecture showing your disapproval. But despite your protests, you know nothing you tell him can change his mind. You ask him how many people will be going and he says many, most of his relatives and friends, all the more reason he has to be there early, he replies as he gobbles up the last spoonfuls of his food and gets up to go get ready.

A few minutes later he’s downstairs sporting a new suit and asks you if he looks presentable. You are too mad to care, but you force a smile and tell him he looks great. As he leaves, you beg him to wear his mask and sanitize. He nods and says he’ll be back before curfew. You go back inside already knowing he’ll be back late, barely making it past curfew and he’ll be coughing and you’ll stay up the whole night, bargaining with God.

The writer is a student, the University of Nairobi, School of Medicine.