My father passed away when I was five years old. While playing outside, I remember hearing my aunt, who by then was caring for him, scream in pain and my sisters, who at that time were out fetching firewood, rushing inside the house screaming.
I knew my father was sick, and at that moment, I tried so hard to understand what was happening. Quickly, neighbours started wailing at our home, with others walking in circles as they wailed. Others paced in and out of the house, crying. A scene sad and confusing. Only now, in adulthood, do I understand how powerful grief as a language is. Fast forward to the time my mother came back screaming, and that's when I felt a deep pain. I cried so painfully because I saw my mother cry.