SILENCE, THE AMBIGUOUS ANSWER

Willian Wanzala

Not many understand the gravity and magnitude of silence. Just a simple yet consequential action of one’s choice to remain silent can deliver scenes that live rent free in our minds.

 He saw them, yet said nothing; his friend’s wife, walking slowly out of the office, followed by a very pleased manager, smirk plastered on his face, hands pocketed with an aura of fulfilment. Was he obligated to say what he had seen? Maybe he was imagining it, maybe, just maybe he was overthinking of what could’ve been a mere, normal encounter. Regardless of what he thought he chose silence.

 The friend found him in his office, lost in space, perpetually contemplating and reviewing the scene, and that is when he saw the distorted fellow; beads of sweat forming on his temple, eyebrows furrowed together, showing a rather troubled man. The friend won’t take a seat, he defiantly stands, towering him, and asks if he has noticed anything that can either put his worries to rest or unbundle hell on earth. He stays silent, the friend stiffens.  The tension is immeasurable. He didn’t want to give the friend the details that he saw, because, there might be a slight chance that he was wrong, as much as he could be right. He didn’t want to assure the friend either, that all was alright, for he may be wrong. Calmly, he looked back at his friend, who looked down on him, then without warning, the friend walked out, with an ambiguous answer: silence.

He now stood there, left alone after the masses had departed, still engulfed in silence, louder than anything he has ever had the unpleasant chance of hearing. A letter clutched in his hand, tears building up, he stood at the fresh tombstone, where the friend lay, six feet deep. It actually didn’t happen that fast, his friend silently had his health, both mentally and physically and his life squeezed out of him. He confirmed his fears, at his deathbed, the reason he got the deadly infection. His trust shattered, he lost all hope of breathing again, of living.

He read the letter, addressed to him by the friend, given to him by the friend’s son upon the friend’s demise. Using whatever strength left in his weak fingers, he unsealed and read it. What caught his eye were the pictures attached to the letter; his wife embracing the manager, just outside the same office. The friend said he wanted to tell him about it but just like him, he was uncertain, and he did what an uncertain man would do, he remained silent.

Standing there, he stood aghast, not mad, not upset but unsure of the future.  Did he have it? Was he next? Did she do it? – all of which were answered in the same way he always viewed and tackled his problems, in an ambiguous silence.