Prayers unspoken

Death is different in Mozambique. It is ever-present.

My housekeeper uses the phrase “a morte o levou"-  death took him. A swift decision.

Last night, some friends and I were returning from Ponta do Ouro, a touristy beach town by the South African border, where we spent the weekend basking in the early summer heat. We chased the sun out of town, but soon night fell and we had to rely on our headlights to guide us through the long, dirt road snaking its way to Maputo.

We were a group of ten, split up into three cars. It was pitch black when we realized the last car was no longer following us. We quickly doubled back to find out what was the delay.

We found the driver parked on the side of the road. There had been an accident. A car behind her ran over a man hidden by the dark. He was dead.

There was nothing any of us could do, my friend Afonso explained. Bringing the body back to Maputo, three hours away, to be documented wouldn't make sense. Plus, stopping on a deserted road is not advisable, especially in Mozambique. It was unfortunate but better to leave him here, close to his home and family, and let the car that hit him deal with the details of his death.

We hopped back on the road and drove home, the music pumping out the windows, drowning out our knowledge that somewhere on the side of the road lay a son, a husband or maybe a father, his body motionless. Road kill.

Before moving, I promised myself that I wouldn’t resist. I would let this year change me, let the chains of events crash onto me and leave their mark.

So far, the same lesson has been beat into me over and over again. I am not in control. None of us are.

My relationship with religion has always been a complicated one, but, as an agnostic, I’ve never missed being able to pray more than I have here. Being able to do something, to send out wishes of love and comfort and believe they’ll be answered. To be able pray that as those last glimpses of life fade out of someone’s body, they’ll be ushered somewhere better.