Let us reflect on deathbed confessions

What you need to know:

A deathbed apology is better than none at all.”

From the moment a human being understands the concept of death, they wish to avoid it at all costs. The search for life’s elixir has taken strange and interesting turns since Adam was banished from the garden.

Where medieval rulers relied on sacred oils, herbs, and enchantments, today’s tech billionaires turn to ‘biohacking’ and blood transfusions. For the rest of the world—those who aren’t spiritual enough or wealthy enough—the only other strategy left is to avoid thinking about death’s inevitability.

However, despite our best efforts, we remain conscious of it throughout our lives—the lovely flowers that bloom and then suddenly fade, our beloved pets, even the simple act of spraying Doom on the cockroach that dared to spread its wings in your living space—all subtle reminders of the brevity of life. But being 21st-century humans with advanced “amygdalas” means we can choose to ignore life’s uncomfortable truths. That’s why death always seems to catch us off guard.

With one news headline, with a single phone call, we’re startled back into our frail humanity and forced to take stock of our lives: Do I like where I am? Have I achieved my fullest potential? Have I treated others well? Does it matter? These chilling questions can often only be shaken off through the warmth brought on by a stiff dark brew, an embrace, or anything else to help us forget… again. We return to our selective amnesia and put the self-analysis off for another day.

Then there are those whose self-inquisition comes just as they approach death’s door. Mistakes such as forgotten birthdays and anniversaries are lumped together with a bigger misdemeanour . ‘Forget the pain I caused you’, their sunken eyes seem to say, ‘the emotional abuse, the physical abuse, the absence… forgive and forget it.’ If during their own life they needed “time” to forgive, here they hope the urgency of the matter erases the need for any further formalities.

While daunting, the recipient experiences a rush of emotions that reverberate over time: rage, disbelief, unforgiveness—until at last they are forced to accept that a deathbed apology is better than none at all. Indeed, people have admitted to feeling pity for even those who committed the most heinous acts against them. The finality of death allows some solace. For a nation, however, the process isn’t as clean-cut. The offender apologises and breathes their last, but the citizens are left with the legacy of the abuse. Oftentimes, death doesn’t necessarily mean the ordeal is over.

The structures that made the abuse possible in the first place remain—and threaten to create more abusers. The recent news of ACP Sam Omala’s deathbed confession had me thinking a lot about mortality, time, and whether our actions while we’re happy and youthful will be seen in the same light when we’re close to the end. Omala was a key ‘law enforcer’ during the ‘Walk to Work’ demonstrations.

While the nation grieves the passing of a dedicated patriot, we’re forced to confront the reality that the justifications, which seem to make so much sense in the daylight lose their lustre and meaning when contemplated in the shadow of death’s door. Of course, in the end, none of us is without regrets. We can all recall moments when we fell far short of our potential—a harsh word here, a betrayal there. I’m reminded of the biblical account of a rich man whose luxurious lifestyle couldn’t be affected by Lazarus, the beggar at his gate.

As the story goes, upon death, the rich man realises that the torment of hell is too much to bear and begs to have Lazarus (seated with Father Abraham in heaven) dip the tip of his finger in water and cool his tongue. The story seems a fitting example of how our lives—once perceived as perfect and meaningful—can transform into tormenting and vain when examined from the perspective of eternity. For a nation with its share of megalomaniacs, we might find that we’re in for a couple more of these deathbed confessions (read: apologies).

Brenda Nakalema