18th January 2012 Wednesday
We buried my father today deep in red Devon clay.
Our six strong men and true lowered the coffin down on wide white silken bands.
We held on to each other to stop ourselves slithering in the claggy mud and each dropped a handful of earth and a yellow petalled flower onto the woven wicker and brass below.
They sang for him then, his Zambian friends, his favourite hymn in Chiila. And his old friend, the ex-president, white handkerchief in one hand, leaned on his stick and spoke softly, words of love and honour and gratitude for the big life of my father.
So now it’s over but tonight I can’t find words for this staining feeling, a thin reed call pulled from a place I hardly recognise, a primitive, clamouring, shameful wail which says,
‘What about me?’ What will I do without my daddy?’
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