Christopher

Now that I am dead, and I watch these people relive my life, I desire only to describe to them how I feel now, and to tell them that there is no need for their terrible sorrow.
Now that I am spirit, I have no colour or race, no accent, no pain. I feel the bliss that is eternity, and I wish that I could share it with them, these gentle scatterlings brought together by my human death, who now love me as I was never loved in human form.

I stand unseen beneath the Msasa tree, with the joyful souls of Felix the cat, and Cher the dog, whose painful murders were the catalyst of my own pointless death, as these people think of it. But no, I want to shout, there is no death. There can never be such a thing. We are all immortal, and these small passings from one place to another are not as terrible in reality, as they are in the eyes of people.

I watch them read my diaries, crying for me, crying for the days of my life, while wondering how a small black boy living in those times, those times they call apartheid, how did that child come to be writing a diary.

But even so, my story begins before that day. In spirit I remember all, see all, even the days of other lives, other forms, in other worlds, but these are stories for other days.