The 22nd August 2000, a day whose memories I have wrestled to erase in my mind for the past 21 years. I was six years old and my little brother four. It was our dad’s funeral. We saw multitudes of people arriving at our home looking so miserable. My little brother asked, ‘What are they doing here?”

My aunt replied, “They are here to lay your dad to rest, Mahlatse.”

Bewildered, Mahlatse glanced at the coffin that carried my dad in the bedroom. He has been told that dad was resting in that box. “But hasn’t he rested enough? He has been sleeping in that box ever since he arrived,” he complained.

Not knowing what to say to him, Aunty just made up an excuse to elude the conversation. “Mahlatse, let’s go and see your cousin Rati outside, surely she’s got some sweets to share with you.”

He declined, “No, I want to see my dad, let me go and tell him to wake up.”

At that moment, the crowd was about to leave to the cemetery and we were allowed to view his body for the last time. Aunty lifted us up so that we can view Dad’s body. It seemed as if he was just sleeping and could wake up at anytime but I knew that that wouldn’t happen now because Ms Sekwaila taught us at creche what dying means. She told us that Jesus was killed and resurrected on the third day. I also believed the same thing will happen with my dad. I was so poised, thinking that I’ll see him again on the third day and we’ll travel in his Nissan Skyline to Rasplaas as usual.

After viewing the body, the coffin was closed and carried outside. Then Mahlastse asked again, “Where are they taking dad? And when is he going to come back?”

Nobody attempted to answer him except me. I said to him, “He’ll be back in the third day don’t worry. Just know that we going to Rasplaas after Monday.”

My aunt looked at me with solemn pity and I saw tears streaming from her eyes going down to her cheeks and ultimately dripped to the ground. I knew that those tears meant grave pain. I only found myself shedding tears like those after getting a serious hiding.

The crowd reached the cemetery and I watched as the coffin that carried my dad was being lowered six feet into the ground and buried. My mom couldn’t hold back her tears and I said to her, “Why are you weeping like this? Three days is not that long. Dad will be back on Monday.”

My words distracted her sobbing. “He will not, Tshepo!” she shouted.

I asked, “Why not? God raised Jesus from the dead on the third day, he’ll also raise our dad.”

“Just shut up!” she shouted again. “The bible is just created to comfort us in times like these.”

But I insisted, “No, he’ll be back, you will see. Ms Sekwaila told us to trust in God.”

Mom got annoyed and left. I patiently waited for Monday until it finally arrived. I sat in the dining room and even prepared a welcome speech for my dad’s return. I waited and waited for him until today. Unfortunately, he never returned.

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This was one of the commended entries in the My Father essay writing competition. Click here to read other excellent essays from the competition.