It really is a strange situation to find oneself in – that of attending your own funeral. If anyone had told me that the day would come when I would get to listen to my own eulogy, see old lost friends shed a tear for me and notice the absence of those I had assumed would be at my funeral, I would have thought them mad. The questions running through my mind at this moment may appear trivial given the circumstances, but they are gnawing on my mind nonetheless: Who chose these funeral colors – Njogu knows how much I hate red! How could they omit my greatest accomplishments from the eulogy – you can never trust people to do things for you! Who is that woman sitting on the second pew with the ridiculous hat? Nearer my God to thee? Who is responsible for this lack of originality at my funeral? You always live your life expecting that the day they lay you to rest will be unique. That the tears people shed for you will be more than they have ever shed before. That the eulogy will be a perfect rendition of all your successes. That the sun will stand still and the moon will stay in place as it did in the bible when Joshua went to battle. Bollocks! All of it. In reality, your funeral program will have typos, villagers will scramble for a copy to display on their walls, the professional mourner might put up a good show, but it will all fall through when in the midst of her pretend-sorrow, she howls out the wrong name. The old lady next to her will remind her, “Wambui. She was called Wambui.” It is true what was said, “This is the way the world ends, not with a big bang, but a whimper.”
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