When I die,
People will pick up their phones,
And begin asking how I died,
And yet they never picked up their phones
To call me and know how I lived.
When I die,
There will be those who will look for memories
Of the last time we met and spoke,
And begin narrating those stories and encounters,
But never spoke of them about me when I lived.
When I die,
There are those friends who will want to know my home,
The name of my village so they can bury me,
And yet they never bothered to know,
When I still lived and danced on this earth.
When I die,
There will be those who will contribute to my burial,
As they seek to be seen to have loved me,
And begin creating ways for a fitting send off,
And yet they supported me not when I still breathed.
When I die,
There will be those who will talk about me,
Posting on Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp,
To confirm that they truly knew me,
And yet they never stayed close to me when I still walked.
When I die,
There are those who will want to know my dad and my sisters
And question whether I had one boyfriend or numerous
Whether I had a family at all,
And yet when I lived, they were unconcerned about me.
When I die,
There are those who will now read my poems,
And get to my blog and share and marvel,
And praise my works when I am gone,
And yet they read not, cared not about my writing.
When I die,
Let me rest restfully,
Say less if you said nothing,
Let me be but just a memory,
A passing cloud in the wind,
That life and God made me to be.
Before I die,
You better be real and true,
And honest and frank,
Say what must be said to me and of me now,
Sing my praises and dance to my good words,
Even criticize my vices and wrongs,
So I can die knowing you were true,
Because in my death and grave,
I am deaf to the praises,
Blind to the ridicule and rumour,
And ye shall speak not and claim nothing,
When I am gone and breath no longer.
By Rachelle Nene Hartog
