I wanted to write a eulogy about Steve. To celebrate his life. It was the morning after I’d found out the news of his passing through Whatsapp statuses of our shared friends. I’d taken refuge in my bed, unable to eat or drink. Kalima was on the other side of my phone call, like we’d done a day earlier when I tried to confirm it wasn’t an inconsiderate prank.
“The funeral is in a couple of days and I don’t know what to say,” I said, through vivid ounces of tears on both ends.
“Maybe start at the end,” suggested Kalima, with a cracked voice. I could hear him hissing in the back.
“The end?” I asked myself, “But the end hurts even more!”
Steve was gone. Everything seemed misplaced. Music was out of tune. Dreams were irrelevant to life. I’d experienced grief before, when I’d lost my grandma a few months prior. But this was different. With grandma, I naturally steered my mind to thinking it was time. She had lived, so a place among the stars wasn’t such a frightful thing. Like having your name gold-plated on the walk of fame. It hurt. It did. Despite all that, it was a relief from her pain. She could rest.
Steve’s end was nothing similar. One afternoon we were planning to move in together. The next morning we planned a trip to Gisenyi. The following night, not a sound or crack or text. It was surprising. A slap to the face. And swallowing the news was aching to my heart. I felt empty.
“I think if you start from the end, then we could get the depressing part out of the way and get to the good stuff when he still lived,” insisted Kalima. Then he hung up.
I summed up courage and plodded to the living room in my sweatpants. I sat in front of my antiquated laptop, faced with a blank screen. I kept running Kalima’s words through my mind. Starting from the end…
*
Steve had been sick for a while. Everyone eluded the possibility that it would be fatal. Being young blissed us into the ignorance of believing we were invincible, or at least, untouchable by lady death. Steve had been pumped with drugs and secluded at the hospital often that he’d missed the new year’s eve party. Our annual praxis.
I told him the stories of what a wild night it had been after he was released from the hospital. He grinned at how I’d almost broken my knees again on the dance floor when I tried to dance with Stecy. “I will lend you my legs one of these days,” he joked. I told him about the ladies we tried to pull but ultimately ended up starting the year with no kisses under the fireworks.
“You’re all ubufu,” Steve said. He loved using the word Ubufu. Loser.
“When you recover, we’ll see how good you are then,” I dared him. He laughed.
“You know I’m the master and you are my kid, right?” he exclaimed, laying down on the sofa in his living room. “In a week, you’ll see me in the streets,”
Soon after, Steve posted a story on his Instagram announcing he was feeling energetic, and that he was ready to return to work. Everybody cheered at the news. A week later, he was gone. That was the end. So much for a start.
On the day Steve passed, Olga, Prayer and I recurred ourselves at Kalima’s place in Kacyiru before we headed for the wake. We had been all former co-workers at some point. That’s how we’d met. Olga—though she looked sleepy—was the sweetheart. Prayer was the poet dreamer. Kalima was the go-to for anything fun. Tony fulfilled the position of caregiver, despite his stout need for meat. And Steve was the kind soul who glued us together with his jokes.
However, right inside Kalima’s living room, we were speechless. Our eyes were devoid of tenderness. Everything was suddenly dark. Numb and teary. For a person who had birthed us with so much light, it dimmed abruptly.
Right there in the room, I felt cold and alone. The sort of loneliness darkness brings. The kind of cold only knowing your friend won’t be able to warm you with a hug ever again.
Ivan—the party king,who’d joined us with a slightly upbeat tempo to his sight, downed a bottle of tequila with Kalima. They desperately searched for a way through the pain. Through the tears. However, that felt short of enough. So, we ended up deciding it would help processing the news by talking about it. Time wasn’t a fast enough healer.
We rounded each other on the couch, trying to bring up the best memories we had of Steve in hopes it would cheer us. “Remember how he used to randomly blurt out that he wanted to drink in the middle of the day?” said Prayer through a rueful grin.
“Oh yeah, he would be like ‘Yo, Kalima, what’s the plot for tonight?’” I muttered, imitating Steve’s voice. We burst into laughter.
“I was always jealous of how you guys put together money and bought takeaways,” said Olga,
“And had lunch on top of the office’s balcony. Best convos right there,” said Kalima, holding Olga’s hands.
“I will probably never forget all the nights we spent here dancing till the morning,” I said, grinning at the tables and walls I recalled Steve liked dancing from.
With every memory droned above the dark clouds over our heads, we realised how endless the beauty of Steve’s presence held over us. What’s more, how the moments we spent together were infinite. The realisation that we wouldn’t be able to see his infectious laugh spread into any room, nor get to dance with him again, broke our hearts.
I wouldn’t get to listen to him call me “Ubufu” every time we were together nor have our never-ending elevator selfies, the random phone calls bragging about our sex lives.
“It hurts so bad,” said Prayer in a truncated voice as she buried her face in the pillows.
“I know, it sucks so much,” reassured Ivan.
Something inside of us had shredded to pieces. Something always does in moments like these.
*
The sight of my friends livid took its turn to hold space in the form of an unbearable hole. I wanted to tell them everything would be okay. That losing someone so close as I did with my grandma and now Steve, would settle down in a box deep down in our hearts. A cherished place of unencumbered beauty where all the love we carried laid bare of blooming flowers.
And that as long as the box was untouched or the flowers sniffed, life would be bearable. I wanted to say that in the eulogy. But I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore. Instead of flowers, the box smelled of a deforested wound.
All I could see when I closed my eyes was a dark void. Its floor felt muddied, as if I was sculptured from the waist down. Glimmers of light whispered their presence on and off. On the other side of the flashes sat Steve. His head cupped between his palms, looking away from me. Then I would open my eyes, and it was as if he’d never been here.
In the evening, after I’d jotted down a few words on my old laptop, Tony texted me to meet him at Steve’s house for the final night of wake. I screenshotted my screen for the few words I had managed to draft up to show the guys.
The paragraph went like this, “The Steve I knew wasn’t very emotional. He liked to be calm about things. But you would see the difference between joy and pain in his eyes. That’s why it felt great to hear him excited about his recovery. Steve was a fighter. A fighter for what he wants and what he loves. That’s why where he is, he knows we’ll get through this too. This pain.”
Tony nodded at this. He tilted his head down, and rose up with a pale face. He didn’t provide any feedback. But then who would? Everything suddenly takes second place to love when push comes to shove. Nothing else matters when faced with your immortality. Not money, not pretence, not shame. There is no amount of care in anything in the world, except in the one person who no longer is in it.
Right outside Steve’s house, we were seated in the white plastic chairs around a bonfire. Prayer and Stecy held hands underneath the rock structure that surrounded the compound. Olga, Tony and I made fun of each other’s inability to eat properly. And a few other friends and co-workers filled the space with their stories of Steve. The mood was slightly convalescent. Partly because no one wanted to burst into tears and grief.
Kalima and Steve’s brothers were propelled over a little stair stage in the doorway of the house giving testimonies. They recalled their childhood, the mess they caused around the neighbourhood when they played street football (karere) and knocked the ball into people’s homes. One of the brothers complained how much he disliked the 4 am nightly hours when Steve returned home after hanging with us. They relinquished the idea of returning the favour.
As we silently glued our attention to the mournful protestations of our grief. I tried to picture Steve in all the memories they kept painting him in as a child. I closed my eyes once more to my void. The darkness was sullen. But the more I heard about how he was at home and the love he proclaimed, the floor eased up from mud to slippery, as if I suddenly stood in a large tile pool.
I began to glide towards the bright unidentifiable clothes Steve wore. Every step hastened my heart. With every new thing I learned from Steve’s mother who now was being projected in a short documentary on the wall of the house, the water loosened. And Steve’s head turned slowly towards me. It’s funny how upside down the world really is that we understand more about a person when they’ve left. On second thought, it’s not funny at all. It’s harrowing. We live our whole lives in the sorrowful delusion that we know each other. And we don’t bother even trying to fight that thought.
Moments later, Tony tapped my back. He squeezed my shoulder till both legs squeaked through the tin gate and onto the dusty street. “Let’s go eat, petit,” Tony said. “I know a place,”
“Err,” I said.
“And you’re paying,” Tony added.
We marched for at least half an hour to an empty Congolese restaurant lodged across the road from the half-renovated Amahoro Stadium. We sat in front of the TV screen with a golf tournament displayed on it. Stared for a while in sullen silence. The Fantas drooled like water. They tasted like water too. But the pork wasn’t. It was moist, but not spicy. Seasoned right, with a flavour of English sausage. Just like Steve loved it.
Tony went through the plate like it was soup. Then he asked if I had managed to get some sleep. I shook my head. “I keep crying whenever I’m alone, and it lasts all night long,” I said, chewing my last ribs.
“Petit, you know saying goodbye isn’t for us,” he said. “For Steve, it will take just one joke to remind us of him,”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” I said.
“It never is,”
“What about the eulogy? What should I say?”
Tony took a wide sigh back into his chair. Switched between the TV and my weary mug face. He told me not to worry about that. “Someone out there has the right words,” he mumbled.
“I need it to be me,” I said. “I’m the writer,”
“Steve loved you back, Petit,” Tony said, “That’s what mattered. You don’t need to prove it to anyone.”
*
That night as I settled in my bed sheets with my laptop perched on my lap, I drafted another beginning of the eulogy. I was set to write and finish it by the night.
“There was a thesis that you could surf all the world’s problems and wonders with love. That love would be the guide through all the turmoil. Steve understood that. He loved everyone endlessly. Maybe it’s cliche to say that. And perhaps no one is that perfect. But Steve loved through everything. In his way. In his own time.” the first paragraph stated.
“There was also heartbreak in this life. He understood that too. He was no stranger to pain and sadness. So, he ensured everyone knew he was there for them for better or worse. He knew the other side of the joy he brought, and he knew you could survive and come out the other hand stronger.
“And I would like to think we showed him the same. That he felt seen by us. After all, isn’t that what we all want in this life? To feel seen. I hope he knows we’ll be okay. That we’ll never forget him and what’s more, we’ll make him proud. This is not the end of us together.”
*
The morning of the funeral, I was ecstatic. Despite my red eyes. Despite the mournful faces queuing up behind Steve’s closed casket as we entered the church. I drew my mind to the pride I had in the words I’d penned down. I felt a certain closure in knowing that as soon as I hit the stage and read aloud the words of wisdom I imbued on paper, all would be okay. People’s hearts could slow down and pump blood again.
I kept checking my phone, rereading silently the full page of the eulogy to remind myself of the tempo and the tone with which I needed to speak. The mass was anislandish activity waiting for me. I had to make it perfect. I had to make sure everyone remembered Steve, but most importantly, remembered my words about Steve.
“Petit, put your phone down,” said Tony with an angry glaze. I nodded.
The priest was halfway through his sermon. Comforting the family who were sitting on the front row of the church. Then he blurted a few words that shook my heart dry. “Our dearest departer was a good man. A man of love and a wide heart. Remember his life and not his death,” he said.
“Talk about it. His life. Make sure your heart never forgets,” the priest said.
My throat itched. And then I cried. Tony handed me tissue paper. Then he held my glasses. His hands wrapped my shoulder as I sinked in my knees. I don’t know what happened. The trigger was swift. Launched me back into the dark void I’d tried my best to escape.
Right there, beside me on a bench, Steve smiling at me. We were the only two people on earth. I couldn’t hear myself speak. But I yearned to ask how he was doing. If he was happy. I wanted to know what was on the other side. Why I had wanted so badly to write a eulogy. Perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps the narcissism had bettered me into turning Steve’s situation into my success story. I wanted to apologise. To beg for mercy. But my lips were sealed shut.
We soberly stared at each other for a moment, a long one. Steve stared back down in the endless black pool beneath our feet. His smile faded instantly. Then he squeezed his palm in mine, like a message was aching to be spelt, something that would change the course of my life. But then there was nothing again. Just me and a void I once shared with my best friend.
As I opened my eyes this time, I felt neither cold nor alone. I wasn’t at ease either. But it was nice to see Steve one last time. Even if facts would argue I’d created it all in my head.
We gathered together for a final goodbye over his coffin, sobbing and falling into each other’s chests. We cried and mourned, put flowers on his grave, spent an awful time drinking water. Whilst leaving the graveyard, we suddenly craved pork.
It made everyone laugh. How we couldn’t hold our hunger till the end of the day. Steve would have called us Ubufu.
“Where should we go?” Olga asked.
“Steve and I had our favourite spot whenever we wanted to eat pork,” I said.
“What are we waiting for?” Stecy asked.
The bar/resto was near both Steve’s place and mine. We could easily walk, get there, have a couple of drinks, watch a game, eat our tender meat and head back home in a minute. So, we went there. Kalima, Olga and Prayer amateured through the ribs. Tony and I downed multiple plates. We drank in the name of Steve, in the name of us. Then we made a pact to stay close to each other. To do this often.
Then we watched Arsenal lose to a team whose name we couldn’t pronounce. Slid into casual clothes and played pool till midnight.
However, we were still agitated. The fear was that death would come back for us again. And at that, sooner than later. That it would take our loved ones. That it would be cruel. So, we held on to each other even tighter.
Tony would randomly call everyone in the middle of the day to check on them. Ivan would try to gather the whole gang at least every weekend. Prayer would record every video of us together for safekeeping.
Olga would spend her days at Kalima’s, and Ivan would do his best to distract us from thinking. Stecy made it a habit to poke fun at everyone, and I just loved sitting on the side, stunned marvellously at how these people I called friends danced through the night like life was on pause.
“Would you read me the eulogy you’d written for Steve?” Olga asked me a few days later.
I told her it was junk, nothing that truly represents him. She insisted I at least tried to write something for later. For when we almost forget.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I finally said. “But I don’t think I’ve processed my feelings yet.”
“No one has, that’s why it’s still rough,” she said.
“He’s just gone too soon, you know. It feels wrong.”
“I really miss him too.”
“We have each other now, we’ll be okay, right?”
And there was a lot in that. A need for a hug. Some comfort for the future. I cried till dusk that night. But then I started sleeping again afterwards.
*
I used to think I would see Steve again in a nightclub downing shots of Jameson. He would be in his signature shawl collar cardigan, sprinting on the dance floor with a smile larger than life. Without saying a word, he would hold a random girl’s hand and spin her across the board and onto my chest. He would wink at me, and say, “here, have my knees.”
It would be one last beautiful gift he’d be giving me. One last shared treasure together.
But I did see Steve, once, before his sickness became intense. He’d rolled in at a friend’s wedding in a Made in Rwanda shirt. I made fun of him for it since I was wearing a suit. He laughed it off. We sat around a table close to the tent’s exit. Steve said it would be practical when they serve food.
“Do you think we’ll one day settle and marry?” I asked, jokingly.
“And leave the streets? Not me,” Steve replied, chuckling at the thought. “Maybe after I’ve enjoyed to the full extent,”
“It won’t surprise me to see a wedding invitation from you in a week,” I said.
“Hahaha! I would do it in a cave though.”
“I’d officiate it, no questions asked.”
“Let me find a woman today then.”
I said nothing, and he was finished talking. We just laughed hard and sipped our drinks. And the thing that I remember about Steve, clearer than our texts, or the cracks he made about my love life, or the way that he talked or the colour of his eyes or his scent or his funeral, is the look on his face when a photographer instructed us to pose for a couple of pictures. We became serious again. Adjusted ourselves for the flash. The blink of reality. A picture that proves we were once here.
About the Author:
Patrick Shyaka is a Rwandan author of the short story collection “I Will Get Drunk – Short Stories of Stories” and the copy editor of SENS Magazine. His works have been featured in a number of reputable literary journals, including Brittle Paper, Lolwe, African Writer Magazine, The Kalahari Review, Writers Space Africa and more. His short story “I don’t want you to love me” is shortlisted in the Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize.
*Feature image by David Werbrouck/Unsplash
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