If we must die
If we must die, let it not be like cows in the slaughter, walking willingly into the bloodbaths, too meek to resist and too trusting to argue. Let us die like buffaloes in a lion chase or ants in a midday march. Let us die like termites in search of freedom in a hostile world. If we must die, let it not be like birds caught in storm or a deer by a hunter’s spear. Let it not be like foxes caught in traps or flies landing on fire. If we must die, let our death not be told to those with faint hearts and loud wails. Let it not be known by those women who know not to keep their mouth shut. Let it not be told to those frail and on the brink lest they tilt over. If we must die, let the news be hushed and kept silent. Let everyone be told that we refused to be vanquished, that the flame refused to be extinguished. Let them be told that it is not graves but a mound full of seeds and flowers.
Lord, if we must die, let us waft out into your presence like sacred incense. Send a chariot to pick us up while they watch and marvel. Let your trumpets sound and the earth tremble as you come down yourself. Save us the pity of the grave and the clutch of the reaper. Spare us the writhing and the mortis. Oh death, if we might die, then let it be quick and painless. Take us down when we are young and robust, so that we can fight till our last breath. Do not sneak in unexpectedly and throw us into the well. Do not wait for us to climb a tree then shove us into the noose. If you must come, then let us see you from a long distance off, and prepare ourselves. Are you too afraid to rear your ugly head? Are you too embarrassed to flash your wicked smile? If you are not a coward, why did you sneak up on my great grandfather? Why did you sneak up on my neighbour? Were you too afraid to even show your face to my tiny dog? Argh, death, hands that wouldn’t touch, fingers that wouldn’t caress and a heart that cannot accept our pleas, where art thou? Who art thou? Why so silent yet so loud? Why a burning flame yet so cold? Why, tell me, are thou a sharp stab but with such a blunt edge?
If we must die, let it be known that we did not go down like peace activists but like warriors. Let it be told in the streets and tiny homes, in the open and in the bushes that we refused to negotiate, and refused to give last words. Let it be told to all and sundry that we almost won, that we went down with the reaper’s hair and piece of cloth, maybe a spattering of blood. If we must die, then let it be known that we did it in grace and all valour. If we must die, assure us that our dreams still shall be the light at the tower, that which reflects on the seas of life and gives them comfort in the dark nights. If we must die, then let us not rest in peace but in contentment with all words said and things done, and our blood pumping and beats of revenge sounding in our chests. If we must die, then let us not be mourned but be celebrated. Let them not cry over our end but smile about their beginning.