The skies wept the day we buried Baba. Two weeks ago, he stormed down the stairs and I wondered why he was always in a rush; why everyone seemed to be in a rush. We rush for the bus and rush for school. We rush for Mama Lade's hot puff puff and rush for assembly. I would have asked Baba but he was in a rush for work that he ate so fast I was convinced he swallowed his rice and did not chew it.

It's rush hour and we're stuck in traffic. Baba is in the car ahead of us and we're just there, unable to rush, unable to yell at any misbehaving driver like he used to. My hands are wrapped around my sister's, the both of us drawing strength from each other. Mama is staring at the car ahead of us, rubbing her chin every now and then as though she is lost in thought, her napkin is still dry.

Two weeks ago, I asked him to drop us off at school. Instead, he brought out the crisp notes he always saved for us, his girls, and handed us a note each. We rushed for the bus.

I wonder now, why we rushed when we weren't even late for school. It was embedded in our system, to rush, to skip queues, to live like time was not on our side, like we had to be quick before death squashes us like flies, like it did Baba when a container fell on him while he was trying to overtake it.

There was a crowd in our verandah when we returned and they looked at us with pity in their eyes. Mama's wig and scarf was at her feet and her wrapper had come loose. She still had her necklace on so she must have heard when she came home. Her breasts were flapping as she struggled against the women holding her down. She wanted her husband back but even us could see it was too late. No matter how fast she could run, death was always going to be faster. It made me ask: why bother? If death was faster than Baba who rushed all his life, to work and back home, to parties and to conferences, who shoved his rice down without chewing properly, who really just wanted to rush out of the middle class and join the class who didn't have to rush anymore.

It has started to rain, I guess the skies are crying since my sister and I have refused to. Baba's sister is shouting at her phone to make sure the rain has not destroyed the grave that was dug and how we need to rush so we would not be late. Rush; that is the very reason we were headed to Ilaje to bury the man who told stories and laughed loudly at his own jokes while we drank Fanta on "rush free" weekends. Baba rushed and now is late.