FLASH FICTION: When Death Comes

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
~John Donne

I sleep still like a bag of salt in the white, suffocating shroud I am wrapped. It is now noon. I had died last night and would be buried before sunset today, following Islamic rites. In the past few hours, my sprawling living room had been filled with mourners and sympathizers, many of them flogging themselves to the ground and screaming my name “Toga” on the top of their voices and asking Death several ridiculous questions:

“Death, why did you not ask for pounded yam and goat meat instead of eating up our bread winner, Toga?” a woman asked when she was signing the condolence register.

“Chief Toga has several big cars and houses; why didn’t you take them all instead of taking his precious life?” a voice, which belonged to Hans, my personal driver, interrogated bitterly.

“Why does Death spare bad people and snatch the lives of good people?”

“Why did Toga die prematurely, living a widow and two little children behind?”

The Chief Imam of our mosque and his distinguished entourage are now present, to wait for the clock and to conduct my burial when it is time. I died a big man and the Imam, somehow, knows that I would not like them to waste time at my funeral.

The head of our clan, Jaja, is around, too, with my brothers. They are all ready for the funeral.

I hear heavy footsteps now. The door of my room shrieks open. Is it time already and are the undertakers here to carry me to my grave?

“Search the drawers for his land documents,” someone whom I suspect to be Jaja, orders, “we are Toga’s brothers and we must inherit whatever belongs to him.”

“But Toga must have written a will. Remember, he is a Harvard graduate.”

“To hell with his degrees and his will, if any; a man’s will cannot be superior to his customs and traditions,” Jaja answers angrily, “we are Toga’s brothers and we must inherit whatever belongs to him.”

“If you cannot find the documents in his drawers, look for them in the big portmanteau over there.” My eldest brother instructs.

Just then, I cough violently and yank the shroud covering my face. I had arranged my own death, wanting to know how my brothers would behave when death comes.

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