On the day of the funeral I was exhausted. Sleeping, proper sleeping, had vanished from my life ever since my mother passed away. My body felt so heavy, as if I had been run over by a truck.

Deep down I was glad that it was going to be finally over. That we would do the funeral and get it over with.

My main worry still was my little sister. The hospital was overwhelmed with covid cases. When I had tried to get an update on her I had to give up, as my airtime was running out.
“I will wait till after the funeral. Maybe they will allow me to see her,” I thought to myself. “Maybe I can see her in the ward, even if it is through a glass window.”

Khulu complained of a severe headache when she woke up at daybreak to look for her best clothes to put on.

“So we are not going to be able see her for the last time. That’s very sad. It’s not our culture not to see a person for the last time. What if that angers her?” Khulu’s eyes were full of sadness, and I could see a bit of fear there as well.

It is our culture and belief system, strongly upheld in my family, that relatives be allowed to see the face of their beloved deceased, so that there is peace after the burial. We believe that a person holds much power after death, when they pass to the other side.

I myself am not sure about this and I don’t want to get into those arguments about ancestors – all I want is for my mother to be laid to rest in peace.

“We will be fine, Khulu. We will be fine. If she is indeed in the world of spirits, she will understand. She will know why things are done differently right now,” I said, throwing my arms in the air. Khulu was weeping a little. I came closer and embraced her tightly.

“I will be fine boy. Go do what you need to do,” she said, releasing me from the embrace and patting me on the shoulder. “You are a man now, my boy.”

Soon there were a few women cooking in the kitchen and two guys were putting up the tent and setting out the chairs inside it.

Mpumezo arrived to pick me up so we could drive to the graveyard, where we were to meet the undertakers carrying my mother’s coffin.

“Come bro! Let’s go,” he said, coming out of the car and dragging me by the arm. “So I will give you my phone to use for the online streaming, okay?” said Mpumezo, as we jumped into his car.

“Oh great. You have enough data? My family in the Eastern Cape would love to see the whole funeral. Thanks for suggesting we can stream it live.”

A few men from the neighbourhood picked up some courage and came to the funeral. They drove behind us to the grave yard. Khulu had decided not to go to the graveyard service. I was glad – it lessened the risk for her.

Mpumezo showed me how his phone worked and I was good to go. I started setting up the live video as we drove away from our house.

“Okay my peeps … Today is the day we lay mom, my Angel, at her last home. As per the covid-19 regulations, the coffin will not be going via our home. Right now we are driving to the graveyard. I will keep you in touch with all the proceedings. Keep us in prayer. We need it,” I said as I filmed us driving.

We soon arrived at the graveyard. To my disappointment there were only a handful of people – all covered with heavy masks, some even wearing gloves.

But what shocked me was to see the undertaker’s workers geared up in plastic from head to toe. Even the Pastor was also wearing protective gear!

“Oh no! Look at them, Mpumezo,” I gasped.

“Yeah, they all have to dress like that to protect themselves, I guess,” said Mpumezo calmly as we got out of the car.

The undertaker and Pastor took charge. We all had to stand a few meters away from the grave, and socially distanced from each other. Only the undertaker’s people and our Pastor stood near.

There was no church choir to sing. It was just a sad and sombre moment. However the few people there hummed a song. I heard a lady whispering, “Singing will spread the particles of the virus in the air. Rather we just hum the hymn.”

I looked at her and she looked away shyly. She was not aware that I could hear her. I felt glad Khulu was not there. The lack of people, lack of closeness, of singing, of collective praying – all this would have upset her very much.

“So yes, we are here now my people. We are watching the proceedings at a distance, as per the rules. The priest is about to utter a few words,” I said, panning around as I filmed with Mpumezo’s phone, so that my family and friends could have a glimpse of what was happening.

I knew they would be here if it was not for the pandemic. I could see numerous messages of condolence popping up right there on the streaming account.

Then my own phone buzzed; it was on vibrate. I took it out of my pocket. It was the hospital! I recognised the number.

Waves of fear engulfed me as I looked at the number. My hands sweated profusely. “Hello,” I said fearfully.

Then a hefty, rich voice sounded on the other side. It was so dignified, as if the person had rehearsed before. “Hello, is that Mr Ondela Dabula?” the voice bellowed.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said, feeling dread rush through my body.

“This is Dr Mazizi here from Mpilweni hospital. We have your name as the next of kin for Ayola Dabula,” I knew immediately. I knew even before the Dr Mazizi broke the bad news.

***

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