In The Poetry of Life: The Last Stanza | Nasiba Babale

When a poem takes root in my head, I know exactly how I want to end it. I often begin my writing from the last stanza, or line, I make the end special, adorn it so that my readers will leave with an aftertaste on their tongues. In poetry, I look forward to the end with glee and hope. And over time, I have learned to expect something great in the last parts of everything I read. It is in this way that I’ve come to approach life too. 

I look out for the last stanzas of life, the signals to the end of something. I love knowing they are there, somewhere, lurking, waiting for the right time to show themselves. Like the ringing of a bell at the end of a class, the last bus stop at the end of a long journey, the jerking of the plane as it lands, the last morsel of food, the last page of a book, the last part of a conversation, the last guest to leave the party. The last stanzas. 

But life isn’t always like poetry, it hardly ever starts from the last stanza. Sometimes, you have no idea if there will be a last stanza at all, or if it will continue in long lines that do not have an end. And these cliffhangers of life, these events that continue to infinity like a recurring decimal, are the parts of life I struggle to deal with. My mind shifts and fidgets endlessly when it goes on a journey that does not seem to have an end. 

 For everything I set out to do, I love to know exactly how it will end. Sometimes, I just need to know that it will end. It doesn’t matter how long, or how difficult it will be to reach the last stanza in life, I just need to know that it is there, and that I will get there too.  

“But where is the fun in that?” People will say, “The thrill is in the journey, not the destination.” My thrill is in knowing that no matter how long the journey gets, or how difficult it is, I know the destination, and I have a clear idea how that destination looks like. Of course, I wouldn’t mind making some changes by the time I arrive. Like adding a little line here, cutting a word there, changing a line break there. I can live with that.  

I admire the strength of people who walk through life, living one day at a time. Those who are content with not knowing how things will end but are thrilled by the journey of it all. People who go into relationships without worrying whether they will amount to something or everything will crumble and go contrary to what they wish it to be. People who leave a job with no idea what the next job will be. The birds of life. Those who wake up with no food in their nests, but fly out anyway, knowing that somehow, when they return in the evening, their bellies will be full of food. People who do not worry much about the future. Those who do not hurry through the lines as they read the poetry of life to reach the last stanza. What makes all these bearable is me knowing that even though the individual poems of life do not all have a last stanza, life itself does. There is an end to all of this. Death; the last stanza of life. The one thing all of humanity agrees is inevitable, save maybe the few crazy scientists obsessed with immortality, who work day and night trying to figure out how to beat death. As though death is some hurdle in the track of life, as if it is an enemy that must be defeated. I wonder what humans would do with forever if it were given to them. I mean, look at us! How much evil do some of us get to do with the short life given to us? What would now happen if our lives keep running page after page after page? Jose Saramago gave us a glimpse of what immortality would look like in his book Death at Intervals. It wasn’t exactly a good picture, and I am sure those who read the book will agree with me. 

I am not exactly a fan of death. I just like knowing it is there at the end of everything. That when we exhaust our metaphors, paint all our imageries, and finally, run out of similes to make comparisons with, death will be there. It will be waiting to wrap everything up, the last stanza of life.