And The Man Died.
The Lord protects drunks, fools and children.
Uncle M* fell squarely into the first category, no doubt. He drank enough alcohol meant for seven men. Seeing him passed out in the street or outside the BQ at my father’s had become a very common sight. So common that no one bothered him during his inebriated slumber anymore. They’d let him sleep off his inebriation in the streets rather than come call my father to get his brother.
“M is dead.”
I didn’t expect to be shocked by this, yet it hit me like a freight train. The Lord protects drunks. The Lord must have tired of extending his never-ending, all-loving protection over this particular drunk. I always thought he’d die from liver cirrhosis or kidney disease. Quite frankly, I was surprised he lived till he was 63.
I received the call in the middle of my drudgery of a workday at a law firm. My mother’s usually emotional voice was surprisingly flat. I suppose we had all come to expect his demise one way or the other: alcohol poisoning, stabbed by a sex worker he’d swindled of her service, a bar fight, drowning in his own vomit. Eventually, it was a danfo that did it in the wee hours of an otherwise uneventful Thursday morning. He was crossing an expressway when the bus slammed him into the afterlife. Finding people who knew him took some time: the accident occurred about 20 kilometres from home. Eventually, my father was contacted. Uncle M was going to be a burden one final time.
My father has supported M pretty much throughout his life. Got him a retinue of jobs he’d been unable to hold, spent millions setting up various businesses: a block-casting factory, a refuse collection truck, a taxi. All businesses invariably failed within a few months, proceeds spent on ogogoro and equipment sold for beer. So my father put him on a stipend and let him live in a BQ in his house. He was his youngest half-brother, after all. He had to.
My father was distraught at the news of his death. He’d never show it though. After losing a son, several siblings, countless relatives, and friends, there was very little life could throw at him that could faze him. He collected his brother’s body from the police station, contacted M’s Muslim relatives, and buried him unceremoniously. He was survived by no wife nor child.
M’s life didn’t start out doomed. Having graduated Form V, he had secured a job at Barclay’s Bank. Things seemed to be looking up for him when he decided to move abroad.
Till he was deported. Things only seemed to spiral downwards from there. He seemed unable to hold a job. Next came the alcoholism. The family tried everything. Counselling, prayers, mountain fasts, begging, pleadings, tough love. Nothing seemed to work. M loved his bottle intensely.
If there was one thing Uncle M loved to do, it was talking. He could talk for hours on end, allowing no interjections from you, if you let him. He’d often bump into me on the street (whenever it was too late for me to cross the street after sighting his lanky frame from a distance), inquiring after my mother, brother and everyone in the family. I’d keep my distance, lest I be choked by his eye-watering, paint-peeling breath. He’d go on rants, right there on the street, about how my father’s other tenants would disrespect him in the house. Didn’t they know his brother owned the house? I’d display some perfunctory rage and incredulity at his narration. How dare they? Daddy must hear of this.
He was often avoided by family; he’d ask for money from everyone, his nieces and nephews included. They helped as much as they could, but eventually, the nieces and nephews had children of their own and could no longer support him. The furtherance of his existence fell squarely on my father, who did his part for 30 odd years.
It was a hit-and-run. The driver was never caught. The Lord protects the drunks. This drunk could no longer pay the protection racketeer and his protection was promptly taken away.
