When my time comes, will I be welcomed home, to the land of my forebears?
Will the land say thank you for returning back to us, for this your final journey?
Will they hail and salute me as I travel to my resting place?
What will they say?
I do not know the answers, but I am comforted that my death shall be a good one.
Of course, I don’t mean for my body. Igbo blood congeals, cold in veins no longer pulsating. Igbo blood congeals like all others, of course, I know.
But an Igbo death is like no other. An Igbo death reincarnates, revives.
I will be remembered, returned to the land of my father. Those I leave behind will dance for me, not weep. They will tell the world who I was and in doing so I will be reborn.
An Igbo death means I will not go quietly. Quiet tears will not do.
No, instead I will live on, out loud, through passion and pride.
Now it is for me to live up to the death I am owed.
What will they say?
I do not know the answer…
Ify