I've witnessed six deaths today, and I fear I may be next. I attended each funeral, observing how wives lamented with tears and slaps to their thighs, how children wept for their lost hearts, and how men remained as still as tombs. We sat down to consume couscous and roasted chicken beside the deceased, as a somber reminder of mortality.
In my culture, it's believed that when you pass away, your body is a feast for others. It's ironic because, when worms consume your brain and eyes in your grave, your loved ones are consuming your soul.
You become nothing more than couscous and meat.
