Rasta Tim

“Rasta Tim” (i.e., Tim) was one of mine and Baine’s friends when we lived in Cameroon a few years ago. When we were in Cameroon this past summer, we found out that Tim (also in his 20’s) had died (supposedly of sickness and malnutrition) in a prison in Douala, Cameroon.

I can’t really explain the shock and pain of this news for Baine and me both. Over the past couple of months, I’ve begun to write about Tim and my feelings about his unexpected death. I want to share the following as a step in the process of my grief and a tribute to my friend Rasta Tim…

RASTA TIM

Every night when I go to bed,
I look at your painting
that hangs on my wall
between two Cameroonian, Ju-Ju masks.
A sick, sinking feeling
rushes through my veins
while a gratefulness
for the simplicity
of the colors and shapes in your work
offers temporary comfort.
___________________

I remember the first time I met you.
You sat at my kitchen table,
showing me your paintings,
energetically telling me stories of your life
and of your passions
for art, football, hiking, traveling.

But while you talked,
I could see pain buried deeply
behind your hazy, droopy eyes
that almost never made contact with mine;
I felt your pain gain momentum
in your ever-fidgety hands
that repetitively moved
from tapping together
to rubbing and bracing your neck,
to scratching your head.
More than anything else,
I remember the deep pain
that your awkward, beautiful smile
attempted to silence.

Your pain was unbearably present
to me on that day.
___________________

I vividly remember our first hike with you –

the dry heat from the glaring sun,
the dust and smoke in the air,
The thick cloud of dust that formed around us
as we slid (that is, gracefully fell)
down the steep hill of loose dirt.
I remember the beads of sweat on your brow
and our water that we, instead of sharing,
just gave to you
since we feared the inevitable sickness
that followed communal drinks in Cameroon.
I remember your manic energy and speed on our hike
while you performed a passionate rendition
of Michael Jackson’s Heal the World
and various, offensive (though you did not know it) rap songs.
___________________

Now, more than three years later,
I wonder about your life –
the judgment and isolation
of your time in Belo,
the freedom and unfulfilled hope
of your time in Maroua,
the abandonment, darkness, and death
of your time in Douala,
I wonder about your final days in prison –
young,
abandoned,
abused,
alone,
sick,
dying –

Every night, I look at your painting on my wall,
and I wonder…
What was my part in your life?
What is your part in mine?
My heart breaks
when I think on it.
My heart breaks
every night
when I look at your beautiful painting.