A Tribute To Komla Dumor: When The Peals Fail
Having
been sucked into a vortex of sadness since Saturday, I am gravid with pain and
perhaps by inditing this piece, I may yet lessen the preponderant funereal and
lugubrious grip of such emotions holding sway.
Death
is not only cruel, it is much more.
It
cuts and thwarts; yes, it triturates roseate dreams into much less than noisome
rubbles. It is that which slices through even the most hardened heart and subjugates
it with hoops of steel without recourse to feelings of consolation.
When
such a beautiful flower blossoming into something of splendiferous beauty,
value, and service is severed from its branch posthaste and without notice, it
must surely be decried and lamented.
Komla
Dumor, although not known personally by as many as knew him, seems to have had
a relationship with all. Yes, it seems like all those who either listened to
him or watched him, had a connection of sorts with him. He was simply supreme
at what he did—and yes, to the best of his God-endowed ability—with admirable
assiduity, meticulous zest, and infectious finesse. The coveted accolades he
was feted with; matched by the affectionate outpouring of tributes like a
waterfall on different media is conclusive evidence.
Afternoon Moon
What
gets me cerebrating on this issue rather than celebrating not long after the
passing of Africa’s colossus numero uno,
is why such a young man in his prime flickers off the screen of life and we espy
his, as having been a rather scurried life. Yes, he seems to have scampered
across our eyes and we could have spent a lot more time together either in
proximity or from a distance. Indeed, the night seems to have fallen right at
noontime. But why not after a few more hours?
And
why did the moon temerariously step out of its majestic mansion at midday to plop
the curtain on a ceremony which was surely on an acclivity? What bathos to see
this lunar appearance prove so destructive and thrust us into mourning when we
would rather marinate in mirth as we watch and hear from such a nonpareil
compère?
Recurring Concept Which Baffles Reason
Surely
death seems to prove quite heart-wrenching at several instances. It has not
lost its capacity to bewilder. It flaps its interminable wings only to confer
on us an unbearable frisson leaving us with moistened eyes and a sizable lump
in our throats. Our involuntary riposte is not far from snorkelling as well as
choking on our tears.
We
hear people dying every day and yes, they continue to die. In a sense, it is
nothing new; and yet, we are still not comfortable with such a phenomenon—but
how could we? How we very much will—if we could—wrestle and wrench its power, lop
off its irritable tail, and curtail its dreaded tentacles. But for now, it
continues to elude and baffle us in disproportionate measure.
On
this side of eternity, our collective wisdom is yet to rectify this malady. On
the other side though, not only will we understand the true reasons—why it
happens when it does—rather than settle for plausible, ostensible, or perhaps
even spurious and specious reasons. We can be confidently sure that this undesirable
enemy who manages to invade the belfry and deny the bells their ability to
cheer would be destroyed. And when that day comes, we can expect that not only
would the peals never fail—they will cheer us for eternity.
But
for now, we mourn and rightly so. And in so doing, we warmly remember close
family members of Komla Dumor, particularly his wife (Kwansema) and children (Elinam
Makafui, Elorm Efadzinam, and Emefa Araba). May the good Lord benignly provide
them with clean, trim, fresh tissues to desiccate the rivers of tears that are
facilely flowing down their crimson-coloured cheeks at such a difficult time. God’s
broad shoulders are the only stable shoulders during such a parlous period in
this transient peregrination called life. And may the Lord be with us all at
such a trying time.
We
all need comfort in divers ways.
Fare
thee well, Komla.
Dr.
F. R. Silverson
