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Delta Milayo Ndou #Digital Dialogue
For as long as I could recall, until recent times, death notifications had to be communicated in person, that was the standard, but obviously with families now scattered across the globe, some of these norms inevitably change.
There is something social media does for our lives that we only realise when someone has passed on to the other dimension because it captures, documents and archives moments of their lives that we can hold onto.
The recent death of my colleague, Musah Gwaunza came as a shock and it broke my heart.
Inevitably, as new forms of communication emerge, they disrupt many customary ways of being and nothing demonstrates this more than how we communicate tragic news, how we disclose information about personal loss and how death notifications are made in the age of social media.
This article is especially difficult to write as it is more of a reflection on the recent passing on of a dear friend and close co-worker whose obituary remains in my draft folder because I lacked the strength to see it through, every sentence reduced me to tears and after two paragraphs I aborted the mission altogether.
I last “spoke” with Musah Gwaunza last Wednesday via Whatsapp after he had missed my calls and I had resorted to sending a Whatsapp message wishing him speedy recovery and expressing regret that he was unwell.
He replied 20 minutes later to say he had been knocked out cold by the medication so he hadn’t heard his phone ring, but I was already in a meeting that would last the rest of the day, so I decided I would try to call him later.
I never got round to doing so and now I’ll never get round to it. We always think there will be time later and sometimes we don’t realise that the clock is running out on us.
I learnt of the passing on of Musah via our work Whatsapp group, which was the same platform through which I’d been receiving positive updates on his progress from those who were visiting him in hospital (I was out of town).
We had no doubt he would make a full recovery, after all, whatever ailed him did not seem (in our layman diagnostics) to be particularly life threatening. I was in the almost-deserted Chronicle newsroom in Bulawayo when my phone pinged with a Whatsapp message notification and I realised it was from the work Whatsapp group. I didn’t bother checking it because there tends to be a rather tedious stream of irrelevant messages.
In retrospect, I was having a pretty regular day and was unaware at that point, of the calamity that had befallen us in Harare.
A Whatsapp message
that felled us
When I finally got round to checking my Whatsapp message, I found a rather cryptic message from the group’s admin to say “today has been a bad day in our operations” — I hadn’t heard anything during the course of the day to support such a grim assessment.
I had assumed the message referred to some operational challenge and I reckoned if I hadn’t heard of it — it couldn’t warrant much alarm.
Almost nine minutes after the first cryptic message, the group admin sent another message, this time saying; “Am getting a message that we have lost our colleague . . .”
There are no words to describe how devastatingly confounding that message was. What? Where? How? Is this person serious? What is this? What does he mean by “lost”? This couldn’t be true. The first time I received such a notification that wasn’t communicated to me in person was in 2013 when I received a text message that my uncle had passed away.
Text message. Then a year ago, in the middle of a breakaway session at a technology workshop I got a Whatsapp message informing me that my grandmother had passed on. Whatsapp message. I vaguely remember losing my mind followed by a rather undignified, total loss of composure in the midst of total strangers.
I recall a conversation I had on Twitter once about how people make such notifications via social media, sometimes without first informing close family members who have to find out such news online or from friends passing on condolences.
For as long as I could recall, until recent times, death notifications had to be communicated in person, that was the standard, but obviously with families now scattered across the globe, some of these norms inevitably change.
The strangest notification story that was shared with me in that Twitter discussion was of a lady who called her sister’s kids together and told them she wanted to pray with them — it was around midday. Their father had died and she didn’t quite know how to break the news to them so she decided to mention it in her prayer saying; “Lord I am praying for these children, my sister’s poor orphans, these kids have now lost their father, please watch over your orphans Father God” and she kept going until one of the kids interrupted to ask “what are you saying, has our dad died?”
I use this example to illustrate that making a death notification is not easy and I can understand how posting the news on the work Whatsapp group must have been difficult for the admin, who himself, was battling to process this tragic turn of events.
It took him close to 10 minutes to craft the message because being the bearer of such terrible news is an onerous responsibility — how do you find the words to tell others that a valued co-worker and cherished friend is gone?
Goodbye Musah — gone too soon
Your passing on has broken our hearts. When commiserating with one another over this profound loss, we say your name and cannot find words beyond that. As a member of the Zimpapers team, you always proffered suggestions and provided solutions to operational issues from a place of humility and perspicacity.
We cannot count the numerous times that your sense of humour, gentle laugh and ironic wit buoyed our spirits despite interminable work pressures. As an exemplary member of our team, you were the consummate professional: diligent, steadfast, reliable, intelligent, highly self-motivated and ever so humble — you will be sorely missed.
We are grateful for the lesson you gave, the experience you shared and the commitment you showed to making us a better team. Although you are no longer with us, we will always cherish you, Dread.
May your soul rest in peace Musah, you will remain forever in our hearts. You are gone too soon, our dear friend. Our thoughts and prayers go to all your loved ones during this time of indescribable grief.
Delta is Head of Digital at Zimpapers. Follow her on Twitter: @deltandou
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