He Died: the philosophy of death - By Fulufhelo Mutavhatsindi

Written By: Fulufhelo Mutavhatsindi

Category: Short story (non-fiction)

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the poignant short story "He Died: the philosophy of death," Fulufhelo Mutavhatsindi offers a deeply personal narrative about loss and the painful journey of grief. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this non-fiction piece delves into the emotional turmoil faced when a loved one passes away. Mutavhatsindi's raw and honest account provides a window into the complexities of bereavement, exploring both philosophical and personal reflections on the nature of death and its impact on those left behind.

About the Work

Fulufhelo Mutavhatsindi's work explores the theme of death, not just as an abstract concept but as a lived experience that leaves an indelible mark on the soul. Through evocative storytelling and vivid imagery, the narrative captures the chaos and helplessness of watching a loved one slip away. The piece is imbued with a sense of brotherhood and love, highlighting the difficult transition from denial to acceptance. It is a sincere portrayal of the emotional and spiritual struggle intertwined with grief.

He Died: the philosophy of death

Original Submission by Fulufhelo Mutavhatsindi

HE DIED

The Philosophy of Death

First published 2025

© 2025 Fulufhelo Mutavhatsindi. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without prior written permission from the author.

Scripture quotations: Romans 8:38; Philippians 1:21 (NIV)

Printed in the Republic of South Africa

For Swali.

You taught me what brotherhood means.

And in your absence, you taught me what it costs to love.

PART ONE

He Died

The Philosophy of Death

"…And I am convinced that nothing can separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life…"

- Romans 8:38

"Of all the ways to lose a person, Death is the kindest."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Such statements are uttered with colour and confidence, and

when you hear them, you almost imagine death as something peaceful, graceful, and attractive.

In my book, The Chaos of Existence, I repeatedly wrote about how death is inevitable, how every human being will one day face it. Philosophically, it made sense. Spiritually, it sounded understandable. Even logically, it was undeniable. But reality is different when death finally enters your house. Reality is harsh. Horrible. Unfair.

If you have ever lost someone close to you, then you know grief is not poetic. It is torment.

I saw this when my brother, Swali, died.

The last time I saw him was good. Peaceful. Ordinary. We went fishing together and came back with nothing. We laughed about it and

discussed what we would do differently next time to catch more fish. He had years of experience and was the one who introduced me to fishing. Normally we caught a lot, but that day we returned empty-handed. Still, I could not wait for the next trip because fishing was never only about fish. It was therapy. Silence. Brotherhood.

A week later, I received a call from his wife telling me he was in the ICU.

I told her I would come. I did not rush immediately because I truly did not think it was serious. I had errands to finish. I even took my car for service before going to the hospital later that afternoon. Although she sounded scared and desperate for support, my mind refused to believe it was that bad.

I had seen many stories of people surviving ICU. Modern stories almost romanticise survival. I thought this would become one of those inspiring testimonies. Besides, I knew him as a strong man - physically, mentally, and emotionally. He was not someone easily affected, not even by a simple flu.

When I arrived at the hospital, we waited for the doctors to explain what was happening. Nurses kept telling us he was in theatre for surgery. Almost in the middle of the night, the doctor finally came back and explained that a blood vessel in his brain had burst. They had removed blood clots large enough to fit into the palm of a doctor's hand.

I asked if he was fine now.

She said they had managed to stabilise him.

I asked if he would survive.

She said she did not know.

Even then, I still thought this was the beginning of a story that would eventually end gloriously. Perhaps high blood pressure had caused it. Perhaps something else. They called it a haemorrhagic stroke, a term I had never heard before.

Then we went to see him.

That moment terrified me.

His eyes were closed as though he was not prepared to return. The doctors encouraged us to talk to him because hearing familiar voices might help stimulate a response. We spoke to him. We pleaded with him. But nothing moved - not even a finger.

We left the hospital late that night trying to process what we had just seen. I drove behind his wife while my own wife sat with her in another car. The entire drive, I prayed silently for nothing worse to happen - not on the road, not at the hospital, nowhere.

The following day, more family members started arriving. Reality slowly began forcing itself upon us. Then came the terrifying forty-eight-hour period while medication wore off. Doctors said he could wake up at any moment after that.

But he never did.

Seeing him lying there day after day frightened me deeply. Watching family members cry around his bed broke something inside me. The worst part was having absolutely nothing I could do. That feeling of helplessness defeated me.

I bargained with God more times than I can count.

I reminded God about his two-year-old daughter. About his five-year-old daughter. About his ten-year-old son. I spoke about how young his marriage still was. About how our relationship had only recently grown stronger than ever before. About how the entire family depended on him.

He was generous. He wanted everyone around him to succeed. He helped unemployed relatives find work. He carried people. He was a hero

to many of us.

And now he lay motionless in a hospital bed.

Every day I tried to explain to God how unfair his death would be. I hoped God understood the consequences of taking him away.

Philosophically, I had written about death before. But in reality, I wanted nothing to do with it.

Then came the day I feared most.

I arrived late from work. Earlier that day, the doctor had already explained to his wife and some family members that he was not going to survive. Yet somehow I still carried hope. Faith kept resurrecting itself inside me.

The doctors called us to speak privately.

I listened, terrified.

They pointed at one of the machines. There were many machines surrounding him, but they focused on one with a smaller screen. They explained that when it reached zero, it meant he was brain dead.

Then they said the words I was not prepared to hear:

"He is gone."

I broke down immediately.

I thought I was strong until I came face to face with death itself. I could not stand there anymore. I walked away from everyone and went straight to my car because I wanted to cry freely. I wanted to scream without restraint.

I cried harder than I ever had before.

I asked God why He allowed this to happen. Why him? Out of everyone, why him? He had never even been sick before. He was not living on medication. Nothing about this made sense.

Yet hope still refused to die completely because his chest was still moving. Machines were breathing for him, yes, but he was still warm. Still there physically.

So I gathered myself again and returned to his bedside believing maybe God could still perform a miracle.

I stood there watching his chest rise and fall mechanically. I touched his body and felt warmth. I stared painfully at the veins protruding from his head. His body seemed alive while his condition told another story entirely.

Nothing made sense.

I stayed there trying to process what I saw, what I felt, and what I knew.

Then came another painful responsibility: informing people that he was gone.

But how could I say he was dead when I had just seen him breathing?

I was terrified of speaking death into existence. I had seen situations before where rumours spread that someone had died while they were still alive, and somehow death followed shortly after. It always felt final once spoken aloud.

I was conflicted.

Eventually, we forced ourselves to tell people.

The next day, we returned to the hospital again. Machines still kept his body functioning. The doctor explained that they only needed our permission to switch everything off. He said they would gradually reduce support little by little.

He spoke calmly, almost routinely, probably because he had witnessed cases like this many times before.

Part of me wanted to keep my brother there forever. But seeing his face slowly deteriorate became unbearable. One part of my heart whispered, let him rest. Another part wanted to fight harder.

But the nightmare would not end.

When the time finally came for the machines to be almost completely removed, I could not bring myself to witness his final moments. I gave myself grace and allowed other family members to remain there instead.

Then it was confirmed.

He died.

Just like that.

Almost two weeks of fear, bargaining, denial, and terror - and suddenly it was over.

Or at least it was supposed to be.

Afterwards, I replayed his voice notes inviting us to go fishing. I watched old videos repeatedly. Some videos I had deleted earlier to save storage space suddenly haunted me with guilt. I longed desperately to hear his voice again or see him alive one more time.

I searched online about the stages of grief. Many descriptions felt accurate, but at that moment I did not want psychological explanations. I wanted my brother back. Or I wanted healing to happen instantly.

His police colleagues cried deeply. Friends broke down. Elderly men who rarely showed emotion could not hold themselves together. Family suffered the worst.

The week of mourning was unbearable.

I did not even have strength to pray anymore. Spiritually, emotionally, mentally - I felt defeated.

Part of me wanted the burial to happen quickly because I hoped lowering the coffin into the ground would somehow end the torment. Another part of me hated that thought because it felt like abandoning him.

It was the third week, and I was exhausted from carrying grief.

Even after the burial, I kept wrestling with how unfair everything felt. I never stopped believing in God, but I was angry. I could not understand why God would allow such horror to touch us.

Eventually, over weeks and months, acceptance slowly came. Not perfect acceptance, but enough to continue living. I carried guilt too - guilt that maybe I now had a responsibility to help take care of his children and make sure they are okay.

Then I finally understood something about grief and its stages: Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

The stages do not come in order.

They are not logical.

Sometimes all of them arrive at once. Sometimes they return after you thought you had healed. Some days I still want to renegotiate with reality. Some days I still resist accepting what happened. Yet deep down, I know healing has already begun.

And perhaps that is what makes death so terrifying.

In writing and philosophy, death can sound graceful. Even the words of Paul the Apostle - "To live is Christ, and to die is gain" - carry beauty and hope. But what people rarely speak about is the terror carried by those left behind.

Death may be gain for the one departing.

But for those remaining, it can feel like unbearable pain.

And maybe that is what this book is truly about - not merely understanding death intellectually, but feeling the full weight of what it means to lose someone you love.

- F.M. -

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the art of storytelling and poetry. This competition invites writers from around the world to share their unique voices and creative expressions. It fosters a community of artistic dialogue and showcases diverse narratives, offering participants the opportunity to engage with a global audience through their written works.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Fulufhelo Mutavhatsindi for sharing "He Died: the philosophy of death" with us. Your candid exploration of grief within the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 resonates deeply and offers solace to many who have experienced similar loss. Thank you for your courage and authenticity in writing about such a profound and personal journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.