A Better World if We all died
Eyes snapping open to a pitch-black room at 2 am with my body paralyzed, my heart pounding faster than an Olympic speedster, I stared into the sidewall overwrought with paranoia that the horror from my nightmare was stalking me. Worse, I could not remember the night terror or the creeping nemesis; the traffic light gleamed fierce red, never changing its mind like a broken clock with no battery in an atmosphere drenched with a callous and frosty stench of death. “Surely, the Grimm Reaper was making a grand entrance,” I thought. Is this the end? Lying down on the bed in my twilight teen years, I died from the suspense, waiting to warp through to the other side beyond life. At the crescendo of this jittery symphony, I prayed: God help me and shut my eyes.
Opening my eyes again to see the first sun rays of the breaking dawn that dissipated the dark vestiges of the early horror, I was still alive. But why? Time did shed light on my plight — I was mugged during the suspense that day. Losing my sense of self and fear of death, I got up that day alive and indifferent, neither happy nor sad about the dreadful experience. In place of all those emotions, I was meh. Something broke within me, and you can guess my reaction: meh. My old shell had cracked, and this was new territory and uncharted waters. All this happened during the vacation of my sophomore year in university. If I was going to navigate this terrain, I needed the highest ground to see beyond the borders of the unknown and turbulent seas. This highest ground was a higher purpose; I was about to pay the price for climbing a steep mountain taller than Mount Everest.
The junior academic year resumed, and I had to get back earlier than most to sort out hostel accommodation. Before the vacation, I had reserved my former room and notified the hostel manager but was yet to make the payment. After confirming the slot and making payment to the bank, I arrived at the hostel only to find out that someone else had taken my spot. The manager had delayed communicating the reservation with the facility owner, and the only alternative was to get a refund. Great! I was homeless at the beginning of the academic year. It was a terrible time to look for a new hostel with the majority close to the school already full.
A close friend called, and he needed my help finding accommodation for the academic year. We enrolled as freshmen but offered different programs. He had to defer the second year for chemotherapy because he was diagnosed with cancer at the end of the first year. I agreed to help — this was the first sign of my loss of self since that dreadful day. Any person would first find hostel accommodation given the scarcity for themselves and then for others. I did the complete opposite. I forgot about my needs instinctively and found a hostel close to campus for him, given his health. It did not end well for me after about a week of hostel hunting — all the hostels close by were full. No one helps others to their detriment. After pondering my situation for quite a while, I found a possible solution. Convince my friend, the other roommate, and hostel manager to convert the space-deprived two-bedroom hostel accommodation into a three-bedroom with one bunk bed. All three had to agree to greenlight Mission Impossible. I had already accepted the mission looking at the alternative. It worked well and for the better. After a year of chemotherapy and subsequent visits to the hospital, the doctors discovered cancer circulating in his lymphatic system. What followed were a series of trials and a battle for life and hope. I took care of him when he was in school as he was constantly shuffling between school, the hospital, and family with twists and turns along the road to recovery.
The following academic year came with its challenges as we moved into a bigger room to accommodate three beds in the hostel. Another friend found himself in my previous predicament of hostel hunting and needed a place to stay for the academic year. After getting the consent of my other roommates, we agreed he could stay with us. I offered him my bed and starting sleeping on the floor. This period was my final year of university. We took turns taking care of my friend when he was in school as his health requirements kept increasing. At one point, some of the health requirements got absurd. He was not supposed to laugh out loud as his poor breathing conditions could kill him from just the laughter. The problem was that it was tradition to crack jokes all the time to keep high spirits. Jokes had become second nature to everyone, and our neighbors flocked to our room to share in the fun. It was strange to think that cracking an innocent joke was a health hazard to him. We had to restrain ourselves and give clear-cut signals for unintentional jokes that slipped before we realized jokes were banned. No one could laugh in the room as it would set off a chain reaction of airborne infectious laughter. It was the darkest time in Room 403. Eventually, his health got worse, and he had to rush home for urgent treatment. During the period he was away, I had another deadly experience crossing the road on a Sunday afternoon to buy some provisions. Caught in the crosshairs of a speeding taxi, I galloped obliviously on the road. The driver narrowly missed me by a whisker at top speed after applying the brakes causing a discrete screeching sound. He froze together with his passengers at the grizzly trauma of the ordeal. My other roommate watched the whole horror show from our balcony. I could have died on the spot if I had a head-on collision. After, I walked to the dispirited driver and assured him that I was fine and that he could continue to his destination. It was another meh moment. While away receiving treatment, we spent time praying for his full recovery and restoration to good health. He returned and narrated the experience he went through. Admitted to the hospital, the doctors worked tirelessly to improve his breathing, and after some time, he was pronounced dead. His demeanor this time was different and made me reminisce about my dreadful experience waiting for death. In his case, he did die and was unconscious from the doctor’s report. He had lost his fear of death and beamed with a positive aura. For what is already dead is not afraid to die anymore. He just exploded back into life with a pulse after some time after his death by a miracle. The doctors could not explain how he was alive with his breathing restored. I graduated that year but kept in touch with him. He had become my brother and family.
Getting the opportunity to work as a research assistant at the university, I devoted time to take care of him despite moving to a different location. He finally completed his final exams and went home, awaiting his graduation. Since he was in no shape to be moving around, I run the errands to secure his graduation gown and clear him from any other arrears with the school for his pending big graduation day. His condition had gotten worse, and he could not participate in the ceremony despite graduating with an honors distinction in electrical engineering. The situation took a nosedive on the final runway to recovery. Aided by a wheelchair with fast deteriorating health in the final moments, he walked through the door to the other side of life. Together with some mutual friends, we organized a bus for all who knew him in school to pay their last respects at his funeral. I walked past his cold body, which lay in state smiling to the very end. The procession to the cemetery was no funeral. It was a celebration of life and one well-lived! He would have turned 31 this September 11 and continues to dangle in our memories far longer than he ever lived, cracking jokes in his eternal home. This august month marks seven years since his transition. It took 23 years for my friend to bury his kernel in the earth. Some die never placing their seed in the ground. But if we all did, the world would be shrouded in eternal beauty.
John 12:24–25 I tell you the truth unless a kernel of wheat is planted in the soil and dies, it remains alone. But its death will produce many new kernels — a plentiful harvest of new lives. Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who care nothing for their life in this world will keep it for eternity.
A seed is not beautiful because it dies but from the beginning after its death.
