After Tears

Twenty-Six: Sunday, February 20

184 tweNtY-SIx Sunday, February 20 It was a Sunday morning. the day of my uncle’s funeral. It was a very hot day and Mama and her uncles, whom I had never seen before, had hired a big tent to accommodate all the mourners who had come to pay their last respects to uncle Nyawana. the tent was spread right in the middle of our street in chi, and both entrances to the street had been completely closed off. Strangely, the coffin was inside the tent as the elders had finally agreed, after some discussion, that the corpse could not come inside the yard. that was because my uncle had not died of natural causes, and the elders believed that if the corpse entered the yard it would spell further misfortune for my family. A sad hymn was sung in Sesotho to commence the proceedings. It was the first time in my life that a hymn had made me feel afraid. It was almost as if dead people were singing it. Modimo ore file sebakanyana (god has given us this little time,) sena, Le motsotsonyana. (And this second.) If it had not been for the coffin in the middle of the tent and the Avbob hearse, a passer-by would have easily mistaken the overperfumed and overdressed mourners for a fashion parade. Mama was sitting between sis zinhle and uncle thulani. She was wearing a black maternity dress and a beret of the same colour . uncle thulani himself was in a black single-breasted jacket, 185 a brushed checked shirt, striped trousers and grasshopper casual lace-ups. Sis zinhle looked immaculate in her black panel skirt, with leopard-print belt, and striped cowl neck. In the same row of hired, grey plastic chairs sat my sister Nina, sis Dudu and her daughter, palesa, as well as other people that considered themselves family. Nina was wearing a long-sleeved black mesh top, beige leather jacket and black twill pants. All the family members occupied about five rows in the tent. uncle guava’s former girlfriends and their children were also there, but uncle guava was still in jail because the prison authorities had refused to grant him permission to come and bury his brother. I was sitting in the fourth row with Vee, who was wearing a geometric V-neck tunic, wide denim jeans and camel casual shoes. the other people in our row were zero, Dilika, Bunju, pp and some other people who, I decided, were only masquerading as concerned relatives to benefit from the after tears that would be held immediately after the funeral. Most of the people around us smelt of alcohol and it was obvious that zero, pp and Dilika hadn’t slept the previous night. they had probably been drinking under the tent during the night-time vigil. As I was thinking this, another hymn was started in zulu and priest Mthembu stood up. Abanye bayangale, (others are going that side,) Abanye bayawela. (others are crossing.) priest Mthembu raised his right hand to stop the singing before he began to preach from his Bible. he was wearing a checked shirt and paisley tie, and two-pleat black formal trousers which had very sharp 186 creases ironed into them. he asked us to close our eyes as he prayed for us, but I didn’t. “Father, You taught us that the dead are not absent. Father, know our difficulties and our needs. the loss of our beloved brother, uncle and father, was tragic and unexpected. In Your love we are able to overcome all things. Lord, grant us the grace to meet our responsibilities with strength.” he paused and wiped away the sweat that was streaming down his face, but his eyes were still closed. “All-powerful and merciful Father,” he raised his voice and swung his right hand in the air, “in the death of christ You have opened a gateway to eternal life. Look mercifully on our brother. he had suffered enough on this earth. Lord god, it is Your will that we imitate Your Son by loving those who speak or act against us. help us to observe the commandments; returning good for evil and learning to forgive as Your Son forgave those who persecuted him. Amen!” As soon as priest Mthembu sat down the mourners started to sing a popular zulu hymn: Amagugu alelizwe (the heritage of this world) Azophele...