In April 2013, as the Nairobi jacaranda blossoms fell like slow purple rain, Tony Mochama’s younger brother (Benji) turned 34. But he was terminally ill. With death approaching fast, as Tony celebrated his brother’s birthday before he was scheduled to fly for a writing workshop in Venice, he thought sadly, “Benji may never have another birthday.” He told his brother, “Benji just hang in there, and next year let’s go to an exotic city in Germany.” Benji laughed. Then he said, “Yeah, bro, maybe next year in Yerevan (the capital of Armenia). Next year in Yerevan.”
Benji died shortly after Tony returned from Venice. Tony still remembers the season when Benji was still alive, when his laughter filled the corridor. That season passed. And he has not yet found the one season in which he no longer hears him saying, “Next year in Yerevan.” It reminds one of the saying Jews say under persecution in other people’s countries: “This year we are slaves... next year may we be free in Jerusalem.”
