We are all Dying, So let’s start Living.

We are all Dying, So let’s start Living.

Death is a great leveller. It is no respecter of person, position, race, gender, or any other human construct. Death just is. I remember growing up I was surrounded by death before I even knew what it meant. My mom died when I was 4; I didn’t remember that. I only have one memory of her, and that was her getting us ready to go somewhere. Weird, huh?

My Grandmother and Uncle moved to the UK from Jamaica to prevent us from going into state care. After a tedious battle with the authorities, my Grandmother was finally granted custody. During this time, my Uncle got married, and death visited us again. His wife, on an innocent trip to the shops, collapsed and died. She was pregnant, and it is thought she died of a blood clot.

Meanwhile, all this was happening: my other uncle, my grandmother’s child whom she left in Jamaica when she came to look after us, well, he was shot and killed by the police in Jamaica. I didn’t even get to meet him. Death got there first.

My Uncle, who had come to help raise us in London, later on he died from cancer. I remember this clearly because by then I was grown, and he kept asking to see me. I was on some bullshit and low-key refused to go. You see, when I was a child, he was my hero, the first male character in my life. He was so cool, man, I wanted to be him so badly. As an adult, however, I realised that the man I idolised as a child was nowhere near the man I wanted to be as an adult. Growing up had rent the veil asunder, and I could see him for who he truly was.

He wanted to see me. He was on his deathbed at a cancer hospice in London, and we spoke extensively. Looking back now, I am ashamed of how hard my heart was prior to that visit, because when I saw him, I saw a scared old man who just wanted to see his nephew before death came. I’m glad I went; he died a week or so later. Death.

His sister was my mother; she died. My other aunt who was left back in Jamaica, whom I grew up with like my sister, she too died from cancer. This was hard for me to accept, and no lie, I had numerous conversations with God: why her? Someone so pure, one of yours, devout, dedicated to You. Why her, God? Why did she have to feel so much pain? Why did she have to suffer? Death doesn’t talk back.

There’s also Richard Antwi, a very good friend of mine; he was like a brother. When I moved to Kenya, Richie gave me 1500 pounds just in case. It was cool, because when he graduated from law school and got his first gig, I helped him buy suits. Richie died of sudden adult death syndrome. The entire music industry was numb. I kept saying to myself, “Not you, Rich.” Again, why?

Pelé died today, one of the greatest footballers to ever live, and again we are reminded of death and how it’s inevitable. The fashion designer Vivienne Westwood, the matriarch of British fashion, the punk-rock genius, died today too. So did Catherine Kasavuli, a legendary Kenyan TV presenter.

Death once again comes and leaves as it pleases.

Should we mourn? Not really, because it’s part of life. In fact, I am against the moribund tenor of mass mourning. I believe that each life should be celebrated for the innate beauty it possesses. I see grieving as something different. Grieving is your personal expression. Grieving is your soul trying to make sense of it all. We must grieve because it’s a personal vehicle trying to keep us on a sane path, and sanity is the thing that those we grieve for would want for us most.

There is only one defense against death, and that is to live. Live so hard that even death is afraid to stop you. Embrace each day with gratitude, knowing that if it’s your last, you squeezed every ounce of joy from it. It is in living that we conquer death, not merely existing, but living out loud.

We pass this way only once, so let us make as much noise as we can, so that when our number is called, the world grieves not because of the loss of life, but because of the silence that our departure has created.

Pelé gave us everything he could, and in his last moments he stared death in the face and said, “I am ready.”

Live up, my people.