Justified resignation.

My dear friends, brothers, and sisters,

Had I been unconcerned, I would have gone without a trace. I would have disappeared into the thin air, like ghosts of the ancient Nigerian myth. But no, I am still here—not because I wish to be, but because there is one final act I must perform. It hasn’t come to my perceived untimely end, but I want to attach some decency to this moment and make it timely—for the respect I accord a rather desperate life I have led.

I have thought deeply about this step I am about to take. I understand this is going to remain a mystery to many. I know I will be judged. Nonetheless, I wish to express my full awareness of the fate that awaits the immortal me. Curses, accusations of weakness, and whispered discussions will follow me to that mound of red earth—or to whichever place that will receive my soul. Perhaps I will feel them. Perhaps I won’t. I have never been there before, so I cannot tell. These are matters left to speculation.

I leave this world a poor man—both in spirit and social standing. Maybe, this is one reason why I have chosen to grant myself an early reprieve from the tribulations of this universe. Yet, the poverty I speak of, the squalor that has been my reality, is not my principal concern. Before I depart, I must ask one thing of you, my family: do not attach any expenses to my farewell. Bury me in the humblest manner possible—no grand ceremonies, no flowers. Let my remains find their rest in the gutters, off the street, or wherever unclaimed bodies are disposed of. My poor soul will find peace knowing it has not burdened you further.

Life, for me, has been unkind in the fairest manner possible. It has given me glimpses of joy, only to snatch them away as if mocking my struggle. Smiles and laughter—such small but precious treasures—have always been elusive. I have seen others laugh freely, their faces bright with unrestrained joy. I have tried to mimic them, forcing smiles and laughter of my own, but ghostly laughter fades so easily. The smiles of the poor die in infancy, choked by the weight of despair.

Is life meaningful when deprived of this simple solace? The question is for each of you to interpret based on your own experiences. For me, the answer has grown clearer over time. Life has systematically stripped away the little good I once held onto, leaving me with an emptiness that no effort could fill.

Do you remember our childhood under the harsh rule of Baba and Mama? Of all of us, I was the most restless child. Even then, I didn’t know why I felt so unsettled, and neither do I fully understand it now. Often, you joined Baba and Mama in scolding me. You didn’t care that I was the youngest, the most vulnerable among you. “One day, you’ll drive yourself to ruin,” you would say whenever I made a mistake. Now, I wonder—had you all peered into the future and seen this day? I wish you had also foreseen that my life would be devoid of happiness, so I could have fulfilled your prophecy of despair much earlier.

Do not hate me for what I am about to do. Do not shed a single tear for me. I will not haunt you.

Remember our school days? The games we played, the laughter we shared? Those closing days when we brought home report cards were the worst. Baba’s scolding was renewed, and in sheer defiance, I would refuse to eat. “You’ll kill yourself one day with your stubbornness!” Baba would yell as he forced me to eat. Those words, meant to correct, have haunted me all my life.

As I grew older, those words became my reality. Behind the façade of strength, I hid my pain and shed countless tears in silence. They say men should not cry, but those tears became a hemorrhage of sorrow that has consumed me. This is not an act of anger, my brothers and sisters. It is a decision born out of exhaustion, of a life lived behind bars of wit and endless trials.

Baba and Mama, you will learn last of my actions. Perhaps you will curse the day I was born, lamenting the son who gave up along the way. Remind them of the past sentiments in case they choose to forget. I know Mama will mourn briefly, then lash out in anger, while Baba, stoic as ever, will appear unmoved. But even he, I suspect, will shed tears of anger and disappointment in the privacy of his solitude. To them, I leave a poem:

Do not weep;

No tears for me.

Do not mourn,

But celebrate my poor past.

Do not curse the immortal me,

I will hear none.

Mama, Baba, my goodbye to you, too.

A year ago, in a fleeting attempt to pacify my restless soul, I got engaged to Hanifa. She was a lady of simple elegance, or so I thought, with a personality that seemed noble at first glance. That day, I managed a smile—a rare and fragile thing for me. Yet, even then, I felt the smile was more of an ugly grin, a counterfeit joy that didn’t belong to such an occasion.

Hanifa was everything I thought I wanted. She seemed genuine, her life untainted by the complexities that marred mine. But within days, I discovered the truth—a she-wolf hidden in a beautiful woman’s form. Stories of such people had always seemed like folklore to me, the stuff of fairy tales. Yet there she was, the embodiment of betrayal. That night, someone called her his wife. I lay awake, consumed by anger and disbelief, while she slept beside me, unmoved and unrepentant.

Why couldn’t she have hidden her duplicity for just a while longer? Where had I gone wrong in trusting her? I was desperate to hold onto her, to salvage whatever semblance of happiness she represented. But over time, the truth became unavoidable: Hanifa was a living mockery of my existence.

Life with her was an endless cycle of drama, punctuated by threats from other men who claimed her as their own. “She is a lady of a different class, not for you,” they would sneer. Their words cut deep, but Hanifa’s indifference hurt even more. She would look at me with disdain, her sneers dismissing my pain. Yet, I clung to her, terrified of losing the only thing I believed I had.

Through Hanifa, I learned the cruelest lesson of all: love is a luxury the poor cannot afford. The rich could buy her affection with ease, while I, with my hardened palms and hollow dreams, could only watch helplessly. I wanted her to see me—to see us—but she never did. She was the worst thing that ever happened to me, yet I couldn’t let her go.

As I write this, I realize that Hanifa was not the sole cause of my despair but a catalyst. She accelerated the descent into this abyss, but she did not create it. If anything, she was fulfilling a role in the narrative of my life—a role that, perhaps, even she did not fully understand. I harbor no hatred for her. I even pray for her, that God grants her peace and guidance. Perhaps, in the next world, we might meet again.

My dear family, as I prepare to take my leave, my heart is weighed down with unanswered questions. Could things have been different if life had granted me even a shred of kindness? Could I have smiled and laughed like others if only the weight of the world had been lighter?

In the next few moments, you will find this note, either clasped in my hand or lying at my feet. As I pen these final words, I stand on the frail stool in my bedroom, the loop of the rope waiting above me. A tear slips from my eye, not out of fear, but out of relief. It is my last tear—a drop that carries the weight of my sorrow, my regrets, and my love for you all.

When you find me, pray for my poor soul. Let this tear cleanse my heart as I leave this world. I see the light of God. I see His angels, arms stretched out to receive me. Allow me to justify my resignation.

Goodbye, family.

©Bunguswa™