If most people suffer from the malady referred to as FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), I'm one of those people who suffer from the opposite disease, KOMO (Keen On Missing Out).
The reason I finally got around to watching the brilliant HBO series Game of Thrones (GoT) in 2020 will surprise you. I kept coming across a meme of a blonde teenager with what looked like bloody snot, with the caption “Yeah, sex is good, but have you watched Joffrey die?”
My obsession with the macabre is well documented and so, my curiosity was sufficiently piqued for me to get on the GoT locomotive. For three seasons I watched King Joffrey be the most annoying, diabolical and sadistic little twerp. I must confess that I was looking forward with glee to what I expected to be the most gruesome of deaths, proportional to his evil ways.
As it turns out, his death left me with the same feeling as a sneeze that threatens but never comes. Between the missus and I, we were able to come up with significantly more creative, uglier deaths befitting the cruel turd.
Yeah, yeah, I know — wishing anyone a painful death is terrible, even a despicable fictional character. It reminds me of the time my gran kept warning me to stop poking around a wasps' nest and I ignored her until a short-tempered member of the household flew out in a rage and stung me about half a centimetre below my right eye. As I stood there subjecting my vocal cords to some stretching exercises, she looked at me and said, “I wish it had stung you on the eyelid”, before going to make a baking-soda paste to apply on my cheekbone. But I had it coming.
When I was younger and more naive, I did not get the obsession with the nature of people's shuffling from this mortal coil. The way I figured, death was death and who cares how they go? After all, the end product is the same. The first time I was introduced to the concept of “a beautiful death” was at St Peter's Catholic Church in my hometown of Hammarsdale during catechism class.
And my own mother has been pretty preoccupied with the concept for as long as I can remember. She was always saying, “Nithandazele ukufa okuhle wey'ngane zami!” (Always pray for a painless death, my children.) This is when I learnt that Jesus' stepdad, St Joseph, is the patron saint of “happy” deaths. Apparently this is because Joseph had an irrational fear of having a painful death.
I think this is understandable. After all, I imagine that when he first heard this immaculate conception story, he might have directed a few colourful words in the Almighty's direction. But, by all accounts, it seems he went relatively peacefully.
What I don't want is a clumsy death. You know, the kind of death where, upon hearing how you went, people giggle first before collecting themselves
Now that I'm older, I'm less pragmatic about the nature of my demise. I guess that's probably because I have significantly more orgasms in my past than I have in my future and my body and mind are firing warning shots that the end is nearer. However, I'm far less preoccupied with how painless it will be. What I don't want is a clumsy death. You know, the kind of death where, upon hearing how you went, people giggle first before collecting themselves and offering their condolences.
According to legend, ancient Greek playwright Aeschylus died around the year 455 BC when an eagle dropped a tortoise on his head. I'll tell you why this story bothers me more than it would the regular person: I believe someone put a spell on me, because I attract the most bizarre incidents ever. One of my friends has a theory that me being a drama magnet is actually a gift from the literary gods to provide me with interesting anecdotes.
The story of the tortoise victim reminds me of a story I shared on this page before. I was attending the Time of the Writer literary festival in Durban, in the company of writers from at least a dozen countries, when a pigeon apparently suffering from a severe case of diarrhoea, deposited its load on the crown of my head, with a very loud “splat!".
One of my greatest fears is that this is how I will go: hit on the head by a 700-page novel thrown out of a high rise. And folks will feel the need to say stupid things like “He lived and died for writing.”
