Died of a long illness

Adapted from http://www.citypress.co.za/citypress-says/he-died-of-a-long-illness-20120505/

I adapted this poem to give equal footing for both men and women who “die of a long illness.” This poem is figurative and is not based on any actual characters, but takes on an ironic view of the speeches we hear at funerals.

He died after a long illness. He will be remembered as an activist, a seasoned and experienced politician. He wasn’t perfect, said his party, but then none of us is.

What did he die of? A long illness.

Here lies a talented musician. He redefined Malawian music and was a gifted guitarist. His life is still the ¬prototype for a new generation of young artists. He also died after a long illness.

What did he die of? A long illness.

Here lies a lioness, the wife to a young but well recognised lion. She defined effective communication and helped to craft the image of one of Malawi’s biggest banks. She was kind, hardworking and sharp, and gone too soon.

What did she die of? A long illness.

Here lies a wonderful footballer, snapped away from one of the country’s best league teams at the tender age of 30-something.

He died just as the vicissitudes of the Malawi Flames began to improve their Fifa ranking and without him, the team has floundered, goalless for some years.

What did he die of? A long illness.

This long illness of ours, taking our best and our brightest and talented, turning their brains to mush, filling the graveyards too soon.

This long illness of ours, leaving a million orphans stranded in the harsh and barren world that is theirs when there is no mum and no dad.

This long illness of ours that has meant grannies are turned back into mothers, bringing up grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

This long illness that is beatable with amazing drugs that can turn it from deadly to chronic.

But first you have to say its name to know its danger; you have to acknowledge its course through the veins and into the body.

First, we have to accept that it is, often but not always, the outcome of choice, the choice of our imperfections, of fallibility. To say its name is to take away its power.

Rest in peace, sir and madame, you with the name we dare not say in the same breath as the name of the ¬illness whose name none of us speak even after 20 deadly years. Stigma killed you as much as the long illness did