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NARRATED
Funeral preparations are in full swing. The Mthombeni house is a bustle of activity—every nook and cranny has someone doing something. If it’s not a family member who just arrived and is sobbing bitterly in Mam’Sibisi—Anele’s mother’s embrace, it’s an aunt sitting right next to the mattress and demanding tea with condensed milk and honey, or an uncle asking if people have decided to fast because he’s not seeing any food being prepared. On the other corner is the Sibisi sisters—Owethu, Nomakhosazana and Sebenzile together with Sabelo and his sister Ndalo.
“The funeral policy she had offers a 3-tier coffin,” Owethu pauses before she can continue. “We were thinking maybe we can upgrade it. She deserves a better coffin. What do you all think?”
“Is there money for all that?” queries Ndalo.
“We can all contribute, they said we can add R30K to get the premium one,” Owethu responds.
“Okay, I have R15K,” Nomakhosazana says.
“I will pay the rest,” Sebenzile finally speaks.
“Well, since the coffin part is sorted, we need flowers. We can choose between fresh and artificial flowers. They range between R5K-R12K depending on the size and quantity,” that’s Owethu again.
“Since you all have covered the coffin part, I will pay for the flowers,” Ndalo offers.
They continue planning and pledging money while Sabelo just sits there, looking lost. It is when they start talking about the menu that he looks up and speaks.
“I’m not a charity case nor am I suddenly unable to think for myself. My wife knew what she wanted, you all know how she would plan everything to the last detail. If she wanted a premium coffin, she would have chosen it when she signed up for that policy. We are not upgrading it—”
“But my sister is a well-known person, you want people to gossip about the cheap coffin?” Owethu cuts his sentence short. “We are paying, you don’t have to pay anything—”
“I have the money, Owethu. My objection to your idea has nothing to do with the money, it has everything to do with how you are making her demise be about you showing off how a great planner and spender you are. My wife’s passing is not some show, you can plan your Instagram worthy funeral when you die—”
“Sabelo!” Ndalo berates. “Owethu is only trying to help—”
“I don’t dispute that, I just don’t like how she’s going about everything. You people are even talking about a dress code. Is this a wedding to you all? You were all waiting for my wife to die so you can showcase your designer outfits?”
“I’m sorry,” Owethu sniffs. “Anele was more than a sister to me, she was my deputy parent, my confidant and best friend. I just want her to have a dignified funeral. I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“A dignified funeral looks like a fashion show to you?”
“My sister already apologised,” Nomakhosazana speaks. “I understand how this many look from.your point of view but we have always made sure that we bury our own with dignity and love. We were not trying to overrule you or make you feel useless in all this.”
“She is a Mthombeni, she will be buried the Mthombeni way and we are not turning this into a fashion show. You can try that somewhere else. Also, I would appreciate it if you tell me before spending your money on anything. I gave Owethu my card so we can avoid having to talk about money.”
“We were only trying to help—”
“Thanks, but I can handle this,” says Sabelo as he stands up and walks away before anyone can say anything.
“Please forgive him,” Ndalo says. “It is the pain talking, not him. Let’s give him some time, I will speak to him.”
The Sibisi sisters just look at her and nod. Ndalo, as the oldest sister in the Mthombeni household, has always played the deputy parent role in her siblings’ lives. As a result, her relationship with her siblings is more of a typical African mama and her kids. Her siblings—Sabelo included—respect and fear her. She has always used their fear of her to her advantage as the siblings find it hard to defy her.
She excuses herself and walks out of the house, her eyes scanning around for Sabelo. He sees him standing with bab’ uSibisi and other family members. She makes her way to them.
“I don’t understand,” Sabelo says. “I lived with Anele for five years and she never had an asthmatic attack. How is it possible that she was killed by one? She wasn’t asthmatic!”
“Calm down, son,” Bab’ uMthombeni rubs Sabelo’s back. “I think this young gentleman here can explain,” he says refering to the man who just delivered the postmortem results. The young man looks around, as if seeking permission to speak. He clears his throat and speaks.
“It’s possible that she didn’t know about it either. People can develop asthma at a later stage in life and women are more at risk of this. There are a few causes and the most common causes in women being hormonal changes and estrogen treatments. It can also be caused by working in an environment with allergens and also the family health history can be a cause. There were traces of fertility boosting pills in her system which might have triggered serious hormonal changes in her body. I’m just speculating on the causes of asthma at a later stage but we are certain that she had an asthmatic attack. It was severe and due to it being attended to late, her body couldn’t hold,” he concludes.
“I told her that she didn’t need those fertility pills,” Sabelo says and a tear strays down his cheek. “I wasn’t pressuring her into having a child, we had agreed that we won’t stress about it and trust God. Why didn’t she listen to me?”
“Hey, hey,” Bab’ uSibisi pats him on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault. She didn’t know either. This is God’s will and questioning it won’t do any of us any good. Let’s accept that she’s gone and let her rest.”
“What am I supposed to do while she’s resting? I feel lost, Baba, I miss her already,” he breaks into painful sobs and Ndalo pulls him in for a hug. She hold him tight until he’s a bit calmer.
“This too shall pass, bafo,” she comforts him.
“I will go and inform her mother and aunts inside,” says Bab’ uSibisi and walks away. Other relatives also walk away.
“Thanks for this, man,” Sabelo says to the guy who delivered the autopsy report.
“I’m just doing my job, sir. My condolences to you and family. I will be on my way.”
“I failed her, Sisi,” Sabelo says, defeated.
“Please stop blaming yourself. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to carry that burden. Accept this and allow her to rest.”
“I don’t know what to do without her. She has been at the center of everything I did in the past five years. She’s the reason I worked hard. She’s the reason I bought this house. She’s the reason I breathe. How am I supposed to continue without that one person who made everything make sense? How am I supposed to continue seeing a home in this house without her? Who am I supposed to work for? There’s no meaning to this life anymore, she took all that with her.”
“God has a plan, one day all this will make sense. Be strong, bafo.”
*****
After all the planning, the arguing and harsh words thrown at each other, today is the day to accompany Anele to her final resting place. Sabelo gave in to the suggestion of upgrading the coffin but not to the dress code. Most people are wearing black and he’s okay with that—black has been the colour of mourning for a long time now. The one part he’s yet to come to terms with is that the beautiful white casket sitting in the living room has his wife inside. He hasn’t been brave enough to look at her and say his final goodbyes. He feels like doing so will put an end to everything, including the memories that he is planning to keep forever.
The family is called in to say their last goodbyes to Anele before the coffin can be wheeled to the tent outside where the community and the pastor are waiting. The painful and muffled sobs fill the room as they all queue to see Anele’s face one last time. Sabelo watches and tears burn his eyes as family members continue to says their goodbyes. It’s his turn now and he feels like his feet are rooted to the ground. He wants to walk towards the coffin but his feet are not moving. His brother and father notice his struggle and help him by supporting him from both sides. Tears stream down his cheeks as his eyes land on Anele’s beautiful and peaceful face.
“You can’t, you can’t leave me alone, babe—” his voice catches in his throat and pain chokes him. “I can’t do this alone, vuka MaSibisi, wake up please—”
“Calm down, brother,” Mthobisi says rubbing Sabelo’s back.
“Tell her to wake up, mvuse Mthombeni (wake her up),” he’s now holding tight to his father, pleading with him to perform a miracle.
“Qina ndodana (Be strong),” his father comforts him.
******
SABELO
I’m sitting here listening to the pastor preach but my mind is not here, my heart is willing me to stand up and run as far as I can from this place but my body is too weak to do so. I don’t know why God’s will has to be this painful. Couldn’t God ask me what I wanted for a new year instead of taking my wife away from me? She was supposed to bury me, not the other way around. We were not supposed to be gathered at the cemetery this early into the year. We were supposed to be planning our year, making plans and ticking off some things from the list. She wasn’t supposed to leave me like this.
“‘For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.’,” says the pastor as he throws a rose into the grave.
I don’t know if I’m ready for this, I will never be ready to let her go.
Her mother’s screams pierce through my heart just as her sisters’ sobs tug at my heart strings. I feel like my own heart is leaving with her and what’s even more painful is that there’s nothing I can do to save the situation.
“Anele!” Owethu’s voice fills the cemetery and at this point, I’m ready to flee this place. I can’t do this, I’m not ready for this.
“Come and say your last goodbye,” that’s my brother saying.
I can’t do this. He sensing my discomfort and holds my hand tight. The sun is scorching hot yet I feel cold—I’m shaking even.
“Come on, you can do this.”
No, I can’t. I can’t do this. I follow his lead anyway although it feels like being led to a hangman’s noose that will end my life. We stand next to the grave and I feel like I will keel over.
“Babe,” my voice comes out as a whisper. “I’m not ready to let you go, babe… I’m not—”
“Let her rest,” my brother says it as if there’s a button I can press in my heart that can make all the pain go away.
“Uyiphulile inhliziyo yami MaSibisi, but kulungile, phumula S’thandwa sami. Iyobuya ibonane (You broke my heart, MaSibisi, but it’s fine, rest my love. Until we meet again),” I throw the rose and retreat.
I watch as more people throw in the roses you would swear someone said doing so will make her wake up in a garden of roses. Owethu is still a mess and I understand her pain, she was very close to her sister. She keeps forcing her way to the graveside but her aunts are restraining her. The pastor is the first to pour sand over the coffin and gives the shovel to someone else. I watch as more sand pile on her, my chest is constricting, I cannot watch this. I break free from my brother’s hold and rush out of the tent. Tears are blurring my vision but I keep going anyway.
I’m almost running now when someone grabs my arm and for a moment, tears clear from my eyes.
“Zipho?” I don’t know if I’m hallucinating… but she’s here.
“Don’t run, she would want you to be strong for her,” I think I hear her say.
“Ziphozonke?” I still can’t believe that she’s here. Just then a boy who could be seven or eight years old joins her and I swear I’m hallucinating. I’m staring right back at a younger version of me while my wife is being buried right behind me…
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