Sad Memories about my Dad Passing

Sunday February 14^th 2011

It was around 10:00 PM and I was in our living room teaching my older brother, Racine, how to use a computer. I was to teach him about the basics. Hardly had I started the initiation that one of my half, older sisters entered the living room, looking sad but unusually collected, and calmly announced us “sama Papa gaa ñu na” (my dad has passed). My older brother and I jolted from the floor we were seated and rushed to our dad’s rescue... 

I saw my dad deliver his final breath as I was sitting next to him, powerless…I was surprised and impressed with how serene my mom and aunt were. Before my dad delivered his final battle with the despicable monster that Life is, my aunt and mom—respectively my dad’s first and second wives—praised him for being a great husband. I could hear them proudly and honestly claim “you have never beaten anyone…you have been a great husband…you can sure go in peace”. Even though those were beautiful words about my dad, they also convinced me that he was at the point of no-return. That was it! My dad was dying. He delivered his final breath…and passed. 

Just minutes after, a man came from the local hospital to confirm the death. This confirmation was necessary prior to any burial.

The village chief, Sidibe, an old friend to my dad who went to the same mosque my dad presided as the Imam, came and asked me and a brother-in-law to go to the mosque and get the coffin. When we came back, we carefully placed our dad in the coffin. My mom and aunt had already taken care of my dad, cleaned, and wrapped him in a clean white cloth. The village chief requested that we also bought some ice because of the heat in Dakar and the fact that, though the mosque's morgue was equipped with AC, there could be power cuts as usual. A neighbor who sold ice kindly provided us with some for free.

At the mosque, somebody opened the door of the morgue and my dad was carefully placed on an altar equipped with a tab which obviously served to wash the dead. I was the last to leave the morgue thinking my dad would be too lonely, and it didn’t feel right why we, his sons, had to leave him laying there without keeping him company, without doing anything... It was also poignant that I had to see my dad covered with ice. My cousin spontaneously said “hey, this is too cold for him"; he reached out to do something about the ice and finally realized that my dad was no longer. On our way out, a cousin asked that we should lock the door, and the village chief joked, "I don't think somebody would steal a corpse", and laughed. 

My cousin laughed too; maybe he found the joke funny. I believe he did not find it funny at all; in the contrary, he must have been surprised and angry at how, at a moment so serious and mellow, somebody could throw jokes. Laughing was my cousin's way of expressing his confusion. I was quiet and hated the village chief for that joke that still haunts me.

We went back home. I returned to the mosque. I did not enter, but, from the outside, I imagined my dad laying where we left him, covered with ice…not breathing…his heart not beating.

The following day, February 15, at 9:00 AM, my brothers and I went to the mosque where, in the muslim tradition, we all lined up to pray facing East and the deceased laying in front of us. At the mosque, we sewed the shroud that was to be my dad’s final garment. 

After the prayer—which we held outside the mosque for the many people present, despite the fact that it was a day coinciding with the commemoration of the birth of prophet Mohamed—people came forward to make testimonies. A light skinned, old man approached and sadly said: “I have known this man laying here in front of us today for a long time. In fact, we studied the Koran together. He was very sharp of mind and always mastered whatever surah (chapter) he had on his tablet. Everyday, he would fully master a surah and move on to another”. I silently cried; the old man standing in front of me  started looking all foggy and blurry. I could not distinguish the other speakers as sorrow overwhelmed me and got the best of me.

At around 11 AM, my oldest, half brother asked me to go rent a car. It was only after 12:00 PM that we finally left for the cemetery on board a car rapide and a Ndiaga Ndiaye (old, public minibuses) reserved to drive people to the village cemetery in Ouakam (Dakar).

The grave was already dug when we came. My dad was laid on his right side; my oldest half brother with the help of another lowered him down…I heard the village chief insisting we should lay him to rest quicker as it took us a while to decide to move on with burial. I did not volunteer. I could not, did not have the strength to put my dad underground. I held the traditional cloth (rabal) that covered him. One of my friends was the first to toss the first shovel of dirt that would forever bury my dad. I realized how important community was, how significant people were, especially in those moments of sorrow. The whole community stood up for us when we could not. Instead of feeling grateful to my friend for performing such brave action, I momentarily hated him for tossing the first shovel of dirt. I thought they were all cruel for burying my dad and, with the dust, summoning my being to the finality of it all. 

I stood next to a cousin (the oldest son of my aunt on my dad's side), tears streaming down my eyes.  He uttered "Boys don't cry!". What bullshit! My cousin told me I shouldn’t cry and, if I did, how could I expect the women at home to be brave. I angrily elbowed him on the flank for daring ask me not to cry. I am known as a strong man, but tears from my eyes gave a true testimony to how I really felt as I was robbed from my dad, even though I did not really have a close relationship with him.

Back at home, people milled in and out like ants. Villagers and relatives came to show their support in that tough occasion and formulate their prayers with a pouring rain of incessant "siggil ndigaale" (my condolences).