It was 3 o'clock and still no hearse.  It was supposed to be here by noon.  Everyone was outside, still sitting on the crude, narrow wooden benches and still, periodically, someone would burst into sad song, guests tiredly joining in.  How long would this go on?

People had been very solemn, without tears, until the simple, crude, wooden casket was opened for all to file past.  Suddenly a wail startled the gathering, It was her 12 year old brother behind me.  The crushing grief could no longer be contained.

I had been invited to join Nombuso and her family as they made their way, stopping frequently for food supplies, to a poor Durban suburb in South Africa where the small funeral was held.  Upon entering the tiny home, a wail of anguish rose in unison from all those around me.  It finally stopped at the nod of the oldest woman with us who then loudly greeted the household on our behalf.  The closed casket laid along one wall and a very frail woman sat on the floor, head down, at the end of it.  Benches lined the other walls and in one lone chair, sat Gogo, or grandmother.  In her utter dismay, she grabbed my arm, in Zulu, asked me what was happening to her family.  She motioned to her daughter, the woman now almost lying on the floor next to the coffin, who was obviously sick herself.  I don't speak Zulu, but I didn't need to, to understand the devastating pain in this home.  With tears pouring down my face, I hugged this little Gogo, hoping to relay my heartbreak for her.  Nothing else could be done.  Strangely, at that point in the day, no other tears were apparent.  Death is an all too familiar sight here.

Other friends arrived, young men and women, wishing to pay their respects.  As is customary, a huge meal was all the while being prepared out back over open fires and small portable propane stoves.  I tried to disappear out there to offer my help, to wallow in my own despair at this tragedy, but being the only white guest there, I was quickly ushered out front.  Oddly, at the end of the day, so many gifts of food were given to me, gifts like pumpkins, carrots and so on, I could hardly carry them to the bakki.  I accepted them graciously, knowing I was being offered their best in appreciation for my mere presence in the midst of their sorrow.  To do less, would have been insulting to them.  this is the ever-present, generous and kind tenderheartedness of Africans.

The pastore gave a lengthy sermon, alot of which, I strangely sensed, held a message of warning, as did those delivered by the older ladies of the family.  The men present did not actively participate.  Hours passed.  Time dragged on.  The heat soared.  People were now oplenly restless, yet still quiet and respectful.  The benches became harder.  Where was the undertaker?  Finally, a desperate decision was made to remove the back seat of a small car and transport the coffin in this manner to its resting place.  Just as the men had finished loading the slim casket into the car with great difficulty, and the guests had decided how they would manage to get to the graveside, b taxi or not at all, an old hearse came speeding around the corner down the far end of the road.  By the way, a speeding hearse in not an odd sight.

Our goodbyes were more rushed than usual due to the late hour, I'm sure.  In silence, we made our way home.  Death and dying in Africa is everywhere.  Comparatively, I came to learn, this was a funeral held by a family of some meagre means. Cardboard caskets are often the norm, as is no casket at all.  In at least one African capital I know of, the city morgue is usually without power for refrigeration and one must pay a government fee to recover the body of thier loved one.  Most cannot afford this expense along with the funeral.  And, the rainy season plays havoc with cemeteries full to overflowing.

Dear Nombuso asked me to go with her to this niece's funeral.  I wonder if at the time she sensed that her own was in the not too distant future.  I certainly did not.  But on this day, there were no flowers.  She was 20 years old and her name was Thandi.

back