They gave no reason.
My mother said our uncle did it. He poisoned him while they were drinking somewhere. At times she would say he used sorcery.
My father died for no reason. Or maybe for a reason that nobody knows.
Sometimes I think he was selfish. At times that he was hurting. And when I'm really depressed, that he did it because he wanted to. For no reason. I hate that part of him.
I remember some things about him. Little flashes left now disappearing by the day.
I see him carrying our little sister by his head dancing and taking her to the shop to buy her something. Him playing his favourite songs on tape recorder radio. And him cooking with my mother while we played outside with our close cousins.
I don't see his face. Because he is fading away from my memories. Because he is not looking at me.
They say. He used to look like me. And was built like my younger brother.
I take their word. It is all that I've got.
His death taught me. That I was no longer a boy.
I'm older now. Am I a man? Or was I a man that day?
(This is introduction to my biography. Subscribe)