THE VOICE AND THE ECHO

"Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you.” - Shannon Adler.

The world came. Not just his family, but the whole world stood still in his remembrance. Everyone, including Ghullah, a carpet weaver who never allowed the family of the deceased to drink water and drop the cup.

He kept coming to collect his outstanding payment. But the day he came for it sadly that was the day of Iqbal’s funeral.

People from all walks of life came together in a supportive environment to mourn and to wave sour farewell to the little hero.

After minutes of long waiting, there was no sign of a hearse. No corpse. No casket. Not even a gravestone. The family filled with anguish held some banquet of flowers - roses. Iqbal loved roses; they were bloodstained red, he loved anything red. To him red signified passion. Love. Resilience!

The atmosphere was not only looking gloomy but she felt gloomy. Everywhere the mourning eyes looked there were no smiles. Tears stained the cheeks. why did he have to die? Ghullah thought momentarily.

It was a sunny day, with birds chirping and flowers blooming. His well-wishers would have given anything to see that day. Besides, all of his childhood buddies, church friends, former school classmates and cousins came to the funeral, making the air a little too stuffy.

As if the mourners weren't enough, the clouds knitted her face and cried bitterly. And all scampered for a shade. Some minutes later, she mopped her eyes dry and in the background, faintly playing, was a heart touching hymn Iqbal used to listen to every day. "Amazing grace how sweet it sounds..." The hymn moved every soul to tears regardless of their faiths.

Another curtain of the service was drawn open. Attributes were recited. Iqbal lived a well-spent life as the world testified of his goodness and heroic feats. He successfully carved his monument in the heart of millions. And his framed photo was raised for all to view for the last time. So it happened to be his corpse. Casket. Even a monument of remembrance. Many tears were shed that there was nothing left to cry.

'Poor boy!' Ghullah sighed as he reluctantly joined them. He even had a tear shed, but it honestly wasn't sadness. It was worry.

Would the family be able to pay off their debt? Now that the collateral is gone, what's next? His thoughts ceased not to perch as they flew from one imaginative reflection to another as if he was the murderer. Only Heavens knew!

Let's pray!' A man's voice piped from a corner, drawing all eyes towards the direction as he make his way to the front.

It was a man on a white priestly robe and a string of a cross around his neck. It was a vicar of St. Andrew Chaplaincy, Reverend Steve Omar. A man in his mid-twenty. His comeliness could make a peacock shy but priesthood beckoned and he sincerely took the mantle and embraced celibacy.

'God, we thank you for the life that you give us. It is full of work and of responsibility, of sorrow and joy Today, we thank you for the life of Iqbal. For what he has given and received. Help us in our mourning and teach us to live for the living in the time that is still left to us.

'May the peace of the Lord be unto you all!' The man of God said, stretching forth his hands over every.

'And also with your soul!' The Christians in the crowd responded.

'My name is Rev. Steve.' He continued. 'On behalf of all family and friends, I would like to welcome everyone as we have gathered today to remember one of our brothers in the Lord.

Your presence here today is an affirmation of your love and support to the family. Thank you for being here. Although the family may not remember every word we share here today, they will remember your presence for the rest of their lives.'

The officiating priest delivered a concise, heartening, and powerful sermon giving comfort to the family and friends of the deceased. His soft voice sank into the deep belly of every heavy heart, thus, cutting the lines of their thoughts from bitterness to sober reflection of life.

Iqbal was loved by his family, friends and the world at large. He was a soldier of righteousness. A champion of freedom and justice. A hero both here on Earth and above. A voice to the voiceless. And most importantly, he lived and died in Christ. He wasn't a lost - In Christ he gained victory over death.

'Hear me oh you under the sound of my voice.' The priest cried. 'Life is vanity. This life is fleeting. That's why we should live every day as though it were our last. The book of James chapter 4 verses 14 pictured life as a vapour that appears for a little time then vanishes away. What are we doing in this time of pain and suffering, hardship and trials, etc?

All of us are busy writing the history of our lives. After each hour, we write a paragraph. After each day, we write a page. After each week, we write a division. After each year, we write a chapter. And at the end, we finish the book.

Although we usually try to keep the thought far from us. Today especially, we are made to realize that someday we also must step from this life into another that is without end. Have it come to your mind that each of us will have our funerals conducted. How would the last chapter of your life end?

As we search for answers and comfort, I would like to draw you to John 14:1-3 which stated that we should not be troubled. Death isn't the end. Even Jesus passed using death into the other world and came back again. Thus, Jesus is the one that has the answers, the revelation, and the comfort regarding death.

Let's be comforted in Christ Jesus. Why not lift your eyes yonder to the cross. Surrender your life to the spotless Lamb slain on the cross. He's ever ready to forgive you. Jesus saves!

The man of God concluded the sermon with a prayer. He prayed, blessed and strengthened the entire family of the deceased. And everyone departed after the rite. Ozoemena - may it never happen again!

The message of his death flew far away to the land of Sweden and caused a heavy flood. His friends in school mourned him bitterly. Ike was on an empty stomach for three nights. Sofia broke down when the news came to her. She couldn't hold herself. Her eyes were filled with tears.

Why Iqbal? Why me? She kept on asking herself from time to time. When she closed her eyes, and her mind, the only voice she could hear was that of Iqbal whispering some sweet nothings. Those pleasant memories kept flipping over her mind. She wished for the man on a long black coat to knock at her door as his next victim.

One summer morning, a huge, spinning, glowing sphere of hot gas finally showed his face, and the birds sang more joyfully. Perhaps, the sun was timid because of such a pleasant welcome, and the blazing face tucks out behind the mountain. And it slowly emits a golden glow. At this moment, everything is full of vitality. The layer of ripples on the river surface reflects the golden sunlight.

The wooden door cracked open and tiny pattering feet came in. It was Sofia. A bouquet of fresh flowers on her table gave her a saucy smile and she returned it.

And with a puzzled look on her little face, she looked around. There was no sign of forced entry. She was so sure the door was locked. And her mum hasn't returned from where she went to. She quickly made her way to have those beautiful sweet flowers. She sniffed them and they smelt nice!

'Nice flowers.' She inhaled.

'Daughter, I am home.' Margareta chirped.

'Welcome, mom!' Sofia ran into the arms of her mother. Even the blind could see that she looked for all the world like her old girl.

'Hope you're good?'

'Yeah.'

'You must be hungry, darling.' Margareta said, wearing a bright face. 'Please I need your hands in the kitchen.'

'Ok, mom.'

'Good girl!' Margareta said, ruffling her hair affectionately.

'Thanks for the flowers.' Sofia added, giving her the best smiles.

'I didn't send them.' She answered. 'It was one of your friends.'

Who? Who could have done that? She was still deep in thought when the little bird whispered her a clue.

'Iqbal!' Sofia blurted.

'Iqbal?' She remarked inquisitively. 'Who is he if I may ask?'

'A friend.'

'Boyfriend?'

Sofia responded with dead silence and walked away with saucy smiles. Margareta shook he head and went to the kitchen. While Sofia was admiring the bouquet, she saw a neatly wrapped paper in between them. She carefully opened it and read:

"Hello, Sofia, did you get the flowers? Please would you grace me with your presence this evening at the chapel? I would be there by 4 on the dot. I look forward to meeting you. Thanks!

Iqbal.

Her heart leapt for joy after reading the note. She saw the ray of the sun right before her eyes. Iqbal had been her secret lover whom she admired from far.

Stringing a word together was a challenge. It feels like her tongue has swollen inside her mouth and doesn't want to work the way it was supposed to.

Sofia went to the kitchen to join her mother in the preparation for the dinner. She helped in tidying up the kitchen and washing the dishes. The world could see the happiness in those eyes. Even a blind man could testify. It was unlike her.

'Are you going out?'

'Mum, I'd be leaving to chapel for vesper.'

'Ok.'

Sofia had already washed her body. She smiled as she stood with no clad before a mirror on the wall. She was exploring her physical charms. Her raw body was fresh and fleshy.

She turned and looked over her shoulder to see her backside. It was tempting. She imagined having a soul-piercing touch in the spot where the sun doesn't touch.

The daylight had begun to drain away. It was sharp five when they got to the rendezvous. Iqbal pointed to the hill that was near the chapel. They both trudged to the top of the hill, sat there and began to play. Iqbal suddenly recoiled in silence. He was a bit reserved. Sofia perceived it and wrapped up herself. And a deep silence grew amidst them.

The high voltage of these three affectionate words electrocuted Sofia. Her dreams of countless nights were gradually coming to life.

'Sweetie, come and have your dinner. The table is ready!'

Sofia reeled and wrenched herself back to reality by a familiar voice - the voice of her mother. The chains of her thoughts were cut off - and those sweet memories curled and blackened in the flames of intrusion.

'What is the matter, sweet dove?' Margaret asked.

Silence.

'Please talk to me.' she piped. 'Remember that I am your mother...'

'Please I need some silence here!'

'Ok. I would leave.' Margaret said, kissing her on the forehead. 'But always know that I love you. I want the best from you.'

The door slammed shut.

After everyone has eaten and gone to bed. Sofia stood and made her way to the dining. While at the table, she was staring at the food with no appetite. The meal was left uneaten. She forked it to an unpalatable state.

'Forever in my heart, Iqbal!' She sighed, clinging to the string of a wolf's tooth around her neck. It was a special gift from her late beau.