This is How to Die/Live

The story of a talented, carefree young man battling depression and an intense desire to end his life like his father did — from Audrey Obuobisa-Darko

The Kalahari Review
Kalahari Review

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You are standing in the sharp bend of the road. Two steps on your left away from the edge that only leads downward, its end uncertain. What’s certain is your death. Yet, what’s uncertain is the mode. First option is to wait. Let the poor, unsuspecting truck driver come up the road where he can’t see you yet. Ride your bike freely in front of him, out of nowhere. Relish the sound of his screams as he runs over you, breaks your bones, gets his windscreen sprayed a picturesque crimson. That way, the blame is never on your head (your head is squashed anyway). They’ll befittingly mourn your end, not criticise or shame you the way they did when they spat on your cousin’s grave because he died the forbidden way. They’ll praise you for all the good things you never were. Because you didn’t do it. The truck driver did it. That’s all that matters.

Another option is to do it yourself, anyway. Because, fuck it. Dive headfirst over the edge on your left, spread your arms and point them down like Superman, the wind kissing the hollow tears on your cheeks as you plummet to an end which some say is the end but others say is the beginning. You’ll never know which one it is, because you’re not a god. But maybe, when you get there, you yourself will become one.

Forget your friends, which you don’t have many of, forget the girl, her empty, selfish promises, forget your mother, who’s crying by now because why would this child she birthed to life without his consent want to cut short a life he never asked to have? That’s absurd, right? There’s so much to live for, right?

Right?

You stand in the sharp bend of the road, left foot off the bicycle pedal, pointing towards that edge, right foot planted on the other pedal, pointing towards the road. You convince yourself you haven’t done it yet because there are two options, and you don’t know which is plausible. You convince yourself that’s the only reason. And while you do, the truck driver moves past. You haven’t moved.

You look on your left again, and suddenly, you feel tired. You convince yourself you can’t jump because you’re tired. Diving requires energy. Await another day. Your phone beeps. It’s a video message from Friend One. His eyes are puffy, red, smoke emanating from his ears and nostrils. There’s a goofy smile on his face. Where you dey, bro? You’re late for the party.

That’s when you remember you were on your way to the party at Friend Two’s place. You remember the brief, fleeting exhilaration of parties. The trips out of your mind. Booze flooding your brain. You grip the steer and move away from the edge, cursing yourself for getting sidetracked like that. You look left, right, and left again. Switching gears, you hang onto the sudden rush of good feelings that run through your veins, and rush to paint the town red. Not with your blood, this time.

The crowd goes berserk when you arrive. The long-awaited life of the party. Your girlfriend runs to meet you at the door, liquor on her breath. You plant a deep kiss on her lips till you almost feel tipsy from the taste of her tongue. Whisper sweet-nothings in her ear. Jump on the table. You command the DJ to give you a beat. As you launch into an afire performance of the popular rap song you wrote, everybody singing along, cheering you on, you get lost in the realisation of how good it feels. You remember your talent, your passion. The thing that everyone keeps telling you is worth living for.

Life’s so good, man! You raise your bottle and scream. The crowd goes wild again, and you dance into the night with no cares in this world and the next, as if the night were your last. At some point, it was going to be. But you don’t indulge the thought.

Life. Is. Good.

Been three Sundays since you felt alive. Last time, it was at the party which jerked you awake again, before which you had macabre, yet, scenic contemplations while in the bend of the road, and after which your purpose of living was re-imprinted along the lines of your brain. But, it’s been three Sundays… It’s all mundane again.

How bad will a fall be from this high? You ruminate such questions as you sit carelessly on the balcony outside your apartment room, your back facing a long way down a couple twenty floors. You can’t exactly feel your weight as you finish your third joint. The colours about you dance in a kaleidoscope before your eyes. The music from your headphones buoys your body, guitar sounds vibrating your own heartstrings, the beat of the drum resounding right on your heart. Throwing the dead butt in the air, you lift your left foot to kick it onto the ground Abedi Pele style. You lose your balance for three seconds. One. Two. Three. Yet, in that fleeting trinity of bite-sized time, a lifetime flashes before your eyes and across your tripping brain. You grab the other ledge in front of you in time, and heave your weight forward. Your eyes fill with tears, and you laugh as you relish the adrenaline running through your veins.

Your mother rushes to meet you on the balcony. What was that noise, like someone was struggling? You smile and hug her, ruffling her church clothes. It’s a great day, Ma! She smiles and agrees with you, and says something about church. A great day to go to church, or something like that. You roll your sleepy, red eyes. Tell her to have fun with God. Turn your back to her as she leaves.

Stay because of your mother. The prayers she offers for you. Her wishes for a better life for you as you grow in the absence of the best example of a father figure. Stay because she loves you, and she made you. Because your life is connected to hers, in a very… messed up way.

“Why do you toy with your life like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean. You know, all the… risky things you do.”

You laugh. “Yeah, why not?”

“Why not? You could… die.”

“Yeah, so?”

“What the hell? Do you hear yourself?”

“What’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem? I’m your girlfriend, that’s my problem!”

“Yeah… so?”

“I care about you. Don’t you… love me?”

“I do.”

“So why would you want to leave everything?”

“Why are you so selfish?”

“What the fu –”

“I think you need to leave, love. You’re overstepping your damned boundaries.”

Stay because of your girl. Lie to her face. Tell her she’s enough reason to stay. Remember the exciting things you do with her. To her. For her. Think of all the times you made love, how she communicated with you in other artistic ways than mere talking. Remind yourself of the promises you gave her, the ones she gave you, of a good life together forever.

You dial her number without much thought, the memory of her digits resting easy on your fingertips. You call her by her middle name. Lower your voice. Tell her you love her. Say you’re sorry. Listen to her forgive you, and tell you she never wants to lose you. Listen to yourself tell her you never want to lose her.

But also listen to the other you in the back of your mind, telling you that the only thing you’re concerned about losing is your being.

It’s been how many days… twenty-six? Sweet sixteen days, and a couple ten more. You’re in the back of the Uber, the love of your life sitting right next to you, her warm hand over yours. You share your earphones with her, make her watch another of those self-help videos you’ve been bingeing on YouTube. She squeezes your hand gently, and looks at you long and deep with her warm, brown eyes. You pause the video and smile at her. It’s not very far-reaching, the smile. But, you’re not far-reaching either. So, it’s deep enough. It’s genuine. Or just about right.

You’ve been feeling everything on the surface. No deeper. Been light-hearted, blissful, treading lightly on tiptoes over toxic positivity. Before this day, a couple of things happened. You sort of passed out on the curb outside the police station after getting too cross-faded some nights ago. You sort of told your mother in her face that you wished she had died in place of your narcissistic father. You also sort of went back to stand in the sharp bend of the road again. But, how about we don’t mention that any of these things happened because you are on your way to another delightful appointment with the good old shrink with the love of your life by your side and your new pills in your left hand, you have resolved to live a better life and everything else was all in your head because look how wonderful life is right now?

You’re in the old man’s office now. It’s like… couple’s counselling. Your girlfriend is talking to your psychologist, talking really fast. She mentions the new things you’ve done together, the strides she sees you making. The man says something back, and she laughs. They’re still talking, but you can’t hear them anymore. Your gaze rests on the white walls around you, closing in on you. You wonder how come you never noticed how lackluster the colour was before. How… monotonous. The white? Peace? That’s why you keep coming to this place with her. To find it. Right? But… why exactly, again?

You keep staring. Searching for… colours. You miss the colours. You realise you haven’t seen them dance before your eyes in over twenty-six days. They had made you discard your supply.

Your phone vibrates in your hand. It’s a video message from Friend One.

Where you dey, bro?

They’ve been blowing up your phone for days.

107 missed calls from Female Parent.

108 missed calls from Love.

51 messages from Whatshisname.

Your messaging apps are bursting at the ridges with concerned texts from a bunch of people you wished you cared enough to know. Friend Two passes the stuff to you, but you’ve had enough. Your phone vibrates again. Why won’t you just turn that shit off bro? That’s Friend One. You look at him long and hard, and begin to wonder why you thought this was the best means of escapism all these days you’ve been gone from home.

Fuck it.

Next thing you know, you’re walking back onto the highway at two a.m. Your eyes are expressionless as you indulge the diabolic whispers around your ear and inside your head. Taking slow, steady steps, your follow your feet’s own mind as they embark on a journey they’ve rehearsed over and over, the memory of the path resting effortlessly on your toes.

You look up, and you’re standing in the sharp bend of the road again. This time, you go closer to the edge and look down. Your left leg goes over the railing, and your right leg follows. Back facing the road, your eyes looking ahead at the forbidden side, you whip out your phone.

You leave the note on your Whatsapp status. On your Twitter too. Make sure to specify. The time. The place. It’s not too hard to find- there’s a billboard right here. Sprinkle all the right emotions on the message. You want everything to feel as palpable as possible through their phones. A smile tugs at your lips as you punctuate your letter with pathos- a little despair here, some fear there, and, the pain. Don’t forget the pain.

Now, you wait.

But that’s not for long, because here they come. You see your mother’s miserable Toyota moving up the road. She parks a safe distance away and gets down. Your girlfriend is right behind her, shining a torch through the bushes flanking the street. You pretend not to see them. Standing on the paling, you turn around to face them, raise your arms to balance your body on the thin edge. The way down below feels deadlier. Something nice and warm rushes through you. It’s been a while. Toss your phone down the edge, send it ahead of you. You let out a short yell when the throw makes you lose balance. The quivering of your body sends tears to your eyes. That’s when they finally see you. Not just your mother, and the girl. There’s a growing crowd not so far away.

Your mother shouts and bolts towards you. You lift your leg, and deliberately jolt your body again. She stops short under the streetlight, and falls to her knees. The nightlight captures her small face, which is ridden with lose skin cradling fear along its lines. Her eyes look into yours, and you communicate. No words exchanged.

The air stands still around you. The crowd across the road grows steadily. They might be talking, murmuring, but you hear no sound. You look down at your old woman, and all you can hear are the battle cries between her agony and your mounting satisfaction. You craft an apology in your eyes, and she receives it with tears in hers. Her hands go up to rest on her head, and her mouth falls open. As she shuts her eyes and lets out a scream from the depths of her belly, you close your eyes too, spread your arms and point them down like Superman, and throw your weight over the edge.

It shouldn’t be a long fall, yet, time hangs up its running shoes and casts a lifetime before your eyes. Regret grips your heartstrings hard as you scream and grapple with the air about you. The wind kisses the hollow tears on your cheeks and whispers your shame to you. There’s no one for you to tell that you meant none of it.

As you close your eyes and let go of your existence, your father’s bones welcome you to the very place he also died the forbidden way.

Audrey Obuobisa-Darko is a Ghanaian author with two books: The Magic Basket (2012), and Wahala Dey (2014). Her short story “Araba” was shortlisted for the 2020 K&L Prize for African Literature. She has also been longlisted for the 2020 Wakini Kuria Award for African Literature. She has represented Ghana on an African Literature project at Österlens Folkhögskola, Sweden. She has received The Young Icon Award — Osagyefo Kwame Nkrumah African Genius Awards (2014), 3rd Prize Young Author Bill Marshall Award (2017), and 2nd Prize 2017 USA Kemper Human Rights Education Foundation (KHREF) Essay Contest. Two of her flash fiction works won 2nd place each (2019 & 2020) in the ShadyGrove Literary Flash Fiction Contest. Her works appear in The African Writer, Reedsy, Oriki Podcasts and Kalahari Review.
Audrey is the founder of the Ink It Foundation, a literacy-focused non-profit organisation. She is currently working on her upcoming novels while studying Computer Science at Ashesi University, Ghana. You MUST watch her on her YouTube channel: AudreyObuobisaDarko and connect with her on Twitter @audreyobdarko.

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