16/07/2025
Give Me Flowers While I Can Still Smell Them 🌹
This is food for thought—not bitterness—when I say:
Give me flowers while I can still smell them.
Call me while I can still hear your voice.
Visit me when I’m sick, not when I’m six feet under.
Don’t show up with wreaths when you ignored my silent cries for help.
There’s a strange pattern with some leaders, friends, and relatives.
They vanish when you struggle.
They don’t ask, “How are you doing?”
They don’t visit you in the hospital or check in when you disappear quietly into hardship.
But the moment you die—they suddenly show up.
With tributes. With money. With drama.
They write emotional messages. They cry for the camera.
They compete for attention with rehearsed sorrow and borrowed grief.
Let’s be honest:
Some are only there for the optics—not out of love.
They want to be seen mourning someone they never truly cared for.
They want credit for giving you a “decent send-off”
…when they denied you a decent life.
I Faith Muthoni, I say, No, thank you.
As for my funeral—
I prefer no speeches. No fanfare. No last-minute performances of love.
No glowing eulogies from people who couldn’t even text back.
I don’t want tributes like from some leaders — empty words from someone who had the power to help, but chose not to.
And about invitations—
If you never involved me in your events, don’t expect to be invited to mine.
Funny how the ones who exclude others are the loudest when they aren’t included.
They’ll criticize your guest list while forgetting how often they left you off theirs.
Let’s be clear: stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine.
Let’s be real:
Love isn’t measured by the cost of your casket
or the number of people who show up at your burial.
It’s measured by presence, compassion, and consistency—while you're alive.
So again I say:
If you must give me flowers, give them now.
Because when I’m gone, they won’t matter. 🌹
