I woke up with that feeling again today. I am drowning inside a river of sadness, desperately wanting to be saved. I’m trying hard to scream for help but I can’t find my voice. This river of sadness is my body, my life. I am drowning in myself.
It was almost 6pm and dusk was already beginning to set in; the chickens that moved out in groups at dawn to search for food in the streets and in dustbins had already returned to roost and were strutting around the compound like they owned the place.
Forget what they say about five stages of grief, I have probably gone through a hundred stages, and I am not done yet.