Late Uncle Henry had been a priest. When he lived, he always reminded us how much he loved us. But preceding his death, his last words were that he would be waiting for us and would be delighted with our company (on the other side).
We all laughed at the joke, the funny statement. But I didn’t really think it was funny. I wasn’t sure mother did, either; nor did I think so of Sophie, nor of Josh. We enjoyed a good, final laugh, anyway.
After Uncle Henry’s death, I don’t know. I just don’t. I mean, I speak for none else. But once, between 2 am and 3 am, as was my tradition to rise and remain so for a while, I heard an indistinct chant. I so sought the source.
It would be at least an hour of walking all around the house, displeased by my failure and irked by the chant. It was more than that by then; it was a sort of mumble rap of prayer. What was unsettling about it was the voice—Uncle Henry’s voice.
Categories: Short Stories
Benie is a poet and fiction writer, living in Nairobi, Kenya. He shares thought-provoking discussions, and occasionally does spoken word poetry and plays. Benie is also a freelance content and article writer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry.