THIS IS NOT A EULOGY delayed (This is the face of clarity) — Audio included

st. Chapelle- taken by me.

I didn’t cry.

#funeralvibes

Let’s begin there—because apparently, in this world, grief is a costume. And I didn’t wear it.

No, I did not perform grief. I did not clasp my chest like a widow in a war novel. I did not collapse into aunties’ arms. I did not wail, I did not faint, I did not sniffle politely. I just… existed. Breathing. Present. Fully alert in the middle of what they call mourning, but what I saw was a staged play—low-budget, high-emotion, bad script, worse actors. The rest of the crew real people in real pain real loss, my God.

The man they were mourning? My uncle. Maternal side. Bloodline connection, sure. Real-life connection? Absolutely not.
I didn’t know him. Not really. What I do remember is him mocking my degrees. Plural. Dismissing years of study, intellect, and effort as if they were… what was it again? Oh right—PlayStation trophies.

That man, years ago, laughed at the woman I became.
And now the same people who sat silent then are drowning in public sobs. They weep and whisper about how “wonderful” he was. What a loss. What a soul.
And I sat there thinking: Who on earth are you mourning?
Because the man I knew didn’t earn these tears. Not mine. Not some others. , if we’re being honest. Unless there is a complete different version which I do believe existed somewhere in him with others and that makes perfect sense. another echo

Let me tell you something ugly and real—Death does not absolve you of who you were.
If you lived small, unkind, or cruel, then that’s your legacy.
You don’t get canonised because you stopped breathing.
The living want halos to make sense of the dead. I want truth.

And here’s a truth too many people are afraid to say:
I am not grieving.
I am not relieved.
I am not vengeful.
I am simply not invested.
Because I never had a relationship to mourn.
You do not mourn a stranger. You just watch the curtain fall.

But don’t confuse that with apathy.

No, no, there is a man on my watch list . And he’s still alive. The youngest one. Another uncle. A man who I hope he remembers that I remember everything.

So no, I don’t mourn the dead.
I watch the living closely.
And some of them deserve every ounce of wrath that God once rained on Sodom the ones who target on purpose and never back down.

You want to talk about silver linings? Fine.
The silver lining is this: I left the funeral house with my spine intact. I didn’t bow my head. I didn’t fake grief. I didn’t hand out pity to people who never gave me respect.

You know what else? I left when I saw him, years ago.
That same dead uncle—when he mocked me, I stood up and walked away. Because humiliation has no home in my skin. That is my religion.
You don’t get to insult me and expect my silence at your funeral, although my silence is not speaking at all, but serving water is my silence, water is life.

The world tells us, “Speak no ill of the dead.”
But what if the dead never spoke well of the living?
What if their tongue was sharper than truth?
What if their silence hurt more than anything they said?
What then?

Let me tell you something that will make people uncomfortable:
Every one of us is the villain in someone’s story.
Someone will speak ill of me one day.
Let them.
Say what you need.
Get it out.
I won’t be here to edit it.
You don’t owe the dead your fiction.
You owe the living your clarity.

And let’s talk about clarity.

Today, my body aches in ways I’ve never felt.
I’ve worked 20-hours.
I’ve starved. I’ve bled. I’ve built.
But nothing compares to this bone-deep, soul-wrapped exhaustion.
I woke up and my chest felt like concrete.
My throat hurt without a cough.
My face hurt like I had cried for hours—but I hadn’t.
Even my skin felt foreign.
I didn’t want to shower.
And if you know me, really know me, then you know what that means.

No lavender.
No eucalyptus.
No Marseille olive soap.
No ritual.
No rebirth.
Just no.

And I thought, maybe I’ll eat meat tomorrow. I haven’t touched it in over a year. Not because of animals or ethics or guilt—hell no. I just stopped. Palate changed. Spirit changed. Body refused. But today, the body is asking for something raw, primal, bloody. Not because I’m weak. But because something inside me is shifting. Death does that. Not mourning—death. The concept. The confrontation. The cold mathematics of ending.
I ended up not eating meat though.
And in the middle of it all, people whisper:
“She should have been there.”
“She didn’t even cry.”
“She didn’t act like she cared.”

But guess what?
They didn’t ask why I left when he was alive.
They didn’t ask what he said to me.
They didn’t ask what it took to stay dignified while being disrespected.
They didn’t ask about the whisper campaigns.
The fabricated sins.
The men who acted like serpents in clothes.

But they expected me to lash out but i sat silently.
Not to wear black, i have with a bit of beige
To play lady vengence, why should i ?
Not to pass tissues, but i did, it’s just tissue
To whisper “he was a bad man.” i whispered nothing , but my head spoke and my fingers already started typing.

No.
He wasn’t good to me.
And I don’t lie for corpses.

So here’s your silver lining, wrapped in barbed wire:

I am not broken.
I am not heartless.
I am clear.

And clarity, my dear, is the sharpest form of grace.

Let’s talk facts shall we ?

Let’s not romanticise this:
Most people fail their nieces and nephews.
Not because they’re evil.
Not because they hate them.
But because they assume there’s time.

Time to explain.
Time to bond.
Time to apologise.
Time to mean it.
Time to be remembered well.

But let’s stop pretending that time owes you anything.

You don’t get to call yourself family if your only memory is showing up once, laughing too loud, and then disappearing for ten years.
You don’t get to feel betrayed when the child you ignored grows into the adult who ignores you back.
You don’t get to weep at their distance when all you ever offered them was silence.
So let’s talk. Not about grief. Not about guilt. But about the alive.
Because right now, you are not dead.
And that is the most violent gift you will ever be given:
Breath.
Pulse.
Opportunity.
You have a niece who doesn’t look like you.
You have a nephew who doesn’t act like you.
You have a child in the family who thinks too much, or speaks too little, or writes too sharply, or dresses too differently.
And guess what?
That’s your cue to grow. Not to shrink.
You want to matter?
You want to leave a mark?
Then show up before death does.
You don’t have to be perfect.
You don’t need poetic speeches.
You don’t need matching blood or matching beliefs.
You just need to show up with truth. With presence. With curiosity.

A terminal diagnosis is not a death sentence.
It’s a revelation.
It’s the divine highlighter drawn over the chapters you still have time to rewrite.

So let me say it plain:
If you’re dying, stop wasting time trying to die like a saint.
Die like a human being who gets it—finally.
Die awake.
Die having made someone feel seen.
Die having held a hand you once pushed away.
Die having said: “You never knew how much I admired you. I just didn’t know how to say it back then.”

Because most people don’t get that chance.
Most people fall into death like a dropped glass—shattered, instant, unrecoverable.
They don’t get to correct anything.
They don’t get to say: “Wait. Let me fix it.”

But you, terminal patient, you do.
You are among the chosen few.
You know the thief is coming.
So now, instead of guarding your ego, open the damn door and invite life in.

And to the ones who aren’t dying—you are.
Just slower.
More discreet.
But your clock ticks the same.

So don’t waste it gatekeeping love.
Don’t waste it trying to decide which niece is worthy.
Don’t wait for funerals to hand out kindness like stale candy.

You are not a deity.
You don’t get to determine who belongs and who doesn’t.
Your job is not to approve.
Your job is to connect.

If you’re an uncle or an aunt and you’re alive right now, and you’re reading this thinking, “Maybe it’s too late,”
Let me make this clear:
It is not too late until your mouth is sewn shut by death.

If your niece is distant, then show up anyway.
If your nephew is cold, then ask why—not with judgement, but with courage.
And if the child in your family has grown into someone you don’t understand, then learn.
Because you still can.

And if you’re the one with the diagnosis, here is your gospel truth:

You were given the rarest gift—
You know what’s coming.

Now use that knowledge.
Not to panic.
Not to pity yourself.
But to unlock the parts of your heart you once nailed shut.
Because it’s not too late to become the person someone else remembers as safe.
As different.
As a surprise gift from a decaying world.
It’s not too late to become the unexpected good in someone else’s memory.
And you don’t need much.
A single message.
A call.
A coffee.
A sentence: “You mattered to me.”
You don’t owe the world sainthood.
But you owe it honesty.
You owe it a presence before absence.
You owe it this chance—because you won’t get another one.
And if you are the one who was hurt, abandoned, dismissed, laughed at, called a whore, mocked for your intellect, reduced for your light—
Then listen closely:
You are not required to forgive them but the ability to forgive.
But you are free to see them clearly now—just as they are.
And you are free to walk away taller, stronger, more precise.
Because you are still alive.
And no one gets to define your story except you.
That’s the deal.
That’s the clock.
And that’s the silver lining:
The living still have time.

So use it.
Or lose it.