Dear Death, by Moseka Ntiyia

It’s strange to write to you, the silent visitor, the uninvited guest, the shadow always loitering. But today, I must. Today, I met you—not as a concept, not as an abstraction, but as a presence, real and terrifying.

I was beneath the waves, surrounded by the waters of the sea, feeling the thrill of a newfound skill. For a brief moment, I believed I had conquered the water, transformed into one of those effortless swimmers who sail without fear. But then, something shifted. My right hand betrayed me, slipping out of its socket like a disloyal companion abandoning me at the worst possible moment.

The water became heavier, darker, and angrier. My legs kicked, my left hand flailed, but my body betrayed the calm rhythm I had learned. Panic took over. The world blurred, and in that suffocating silence beneath the waves, I saw you. You were patient, unhurried, as though waiting for me to surrender.

I won’t lie, Death—I felt your pull. For a moment, I thought I might. The pain in my arm, the water pressing against my lungs, the realization that no one above could hear me, that I might vanish without a word or a goodbye—it was all too much.

But then I thought of my pen. I thought of the words I have yet to write, the stories trapped inside me, clawing to be told. I thought of my passion for language, for turning fleeting moments into immortal lines. Could I let you take me now, while my heart still burns with so much to say? No. I am not ready, Death.

So I kicked. Not with the precision of a swimmer, but with the desperation of someone who refuses to go quietly. I clawed my way back to the surface, gasping for air, choking on salt, and clutching the life that was almost stolen.

What happened in the water? Perhaps it was your reminder that you are never far. Perhaps it was the sea’s way of humbling me, of showing me that mastery is fleeting, that pride comes with a price. Or maybe it was just a cruel coincidence, my arm choosing that moment to falter. Whatever it was, I am here, alive, and writing this letter. I have unfinished business with the world, with the people I love, and with the stories I’ve yet to tell. Death, you almost won today, but I am stubborn. I have words that need to be said, dreams that need to be pursued, and passions that need to be kindled.

When we meet again—and we will—it will not be like this. It will be on my terms, not yours. Until then, I will write.

Sincerely,
A Survivor Of Majini ya Nyali Beach