Dear Death

Michael Dare Soyege

Author

Lagos, Nigeria.

3 a.m., 13/6/2021.

Dear Death,

There are several reasons why I am still awake. My room is dark and hot, extremely hot - so hot; sweat is pouring out my pores and soaking my bed like cotton in blood. I try to think, but my thoughts are constantly invaded by sounds from my neighbour's power generator and the mosquitoes buzzing in my ears and feasting on my flesh. I wish I could contribute my quota to the noise pollution by putting on my smoke puffing i-better-pass-my-neighbour generator so I can, at the very least, get some cool air, but the generator is currently in a critical condition.

I am thinking about you. I am always thinking about you.

Did you receive my last letter? I wrote it to you just last month when you decided to rudely clasp your dirty, cold, blooded hands around my uncle's neck. I insulted you and cursed you. I questioned your existence and, ultimately, your shenanigans.

I stay awake tonight thinking about your latest mischief. You found a new way to cause me grief. Yes, I heard what you did. I visited the scene. The old lady that sells fruits down the road, you aggressively snatched her away in a hit and run – right where she sold her juicy mangoes, pineapples and oranges.

Fuck!

How can you be so evil, so cruel, so wicked without remorse? The images of blood and smashed watermelons have etched their way into my subconsciousness, constantly playing like an ancient film. The trauma you cause me is unending.

Worst part: the thing that saddens me the most – I will neither see nor taste her mangoes again; her perfectly shaped mangoes, green on the sides and golden yellow at the top. Their juices would never soil my hands and run down my elbow. They would never stain my lips and run down the farthest ends of my cheek. Never again. This is the thought that saddens me the most.

Fuck you, Death! Fuck the harbingers of your will! Fuck your existence. Fuck life and the concept of it that makes you exist.

I wonder if I would ever get a chance to write to you again or if you would show up at my doorstep next, perhaps while I sit on the water closet to take a shit. I promise to hurl some in your direction first.

With love, or not,

Michael Dare Soyege.

‍