Kasi stories
The other day I went to a funeral at my sister’s in-laws.
Her late ex-husband’s granny had passed away earlier in the week (yeah I
know!). The commute en route there was a rattling mess because of the public
transport – it was on a Sunday morning and commuting people were not on sight
so to get business; taxis have to tout around the neighborhood for passengers.
It also did not help that I left home less than 20 minutes before 10am and the
cemetery progression was scheduled for the same hour!
Luckily the taxi, on its touting mission, rerouted nearer to
where I was headed allowing me to alight and walk a shorter distance to the Mokoena
home, and we got at my stop with a few minutes to spare. My sister’s elder
daughter, Rose, happened to be at the nearby tuck-shop and saw me approaching
so she waited to walk the rest of the distance with me. We exchanged
pleasantries and touched on the #StoryOfMyCar and then moved on to her
siblings. The mood was somber as can be expected at a funeral and the group of
mourners was starting to get thick as the clock neared 10am. Standing at the
back of everyone and a few meters away from where the coffin was, I could
hardly hear the pastor’s sermon followed by a hymn as the undertaker was
pulling in. They parked their convoy, a hearse and three family cars, in front
of the house as the community made way for them and the hearse driver had a
brief chat with a family member…
Stranded at a funeral
More than half an hour later the progression was underway and
they, sadly, did not have enough transport for all in attendance to accompany
the family to the cemetery which is more that a handful kilometers from the
family home. I assume the brief chat earlier was a request from either the
undertaker or the family to delay the progression by a few minutes to buy time
whilst waiting for the bus to arrive - yet it was still a no show. In light of
this, some drivers managed to squeeze mourners in their cars but a large number
of us were still left behind. My only concern at that time was whether they
would have enough men to help close the grave because a lot of us were left
standing there, stranded and helplessly watching the burdened cars drive off. Although
this was a Mokoena funeral, we were actually experiencing the opposite of a
norm that happens at their events. Allegedly, there’s supposed to be rain on
that day because that’s what is expected at their gatherings but no, it was dry
AF out there and there was no hint or sight of the rain. The dust had been
blowing from all directions – it was mid-August after all.
Rose grabs a chair and sits next to me under the erected
tent outside the family home. We were there with a few Zion church elders, my
sister’s father-in-law (who is wheelchair bound due to amputation) and some
ladies from the community that were also left behind. The rest of the crowd was
seated on the other side of a fence that divided the tent in half, securing their
spot to be first in line at the food serving stations when everyone returned. She
goes on about the transport that didn’t arrive and let it slip that a lot was
amiss with this funeral. Apparently ugogo, who was being laid to rest, wanted
to “depart” peacefully at her home and surrounded by loved ones but her wish
was not honored. “Gogo had to spend the latter parts of her remaining years at
an old age home because no one here had the time and patience to tend to her
frailness and other needs of a 90 year old,” elaborated my niece. Rose had also,
allegedly, told them earlier in the week to follow family culture and tradition
whilst prepping for gogo’s funeral but they dismissed her input because of her
youth…
Marriage at a funeral
Whilst my niece was unpacking the dirty laundry, I was
eavesdropping and partly listening to the women seated on my left under the
tent. These were the church elders that had been blabbering on about their
coming of age and being married off at a very young age. One goes on to say she
had no clue what was going and only discovered what was really going on when
she, with her “experienced” husband, had to consummate the marriage. Even then,
she claims she thought it was some sort of a game that she had to play because
she was never really eased into what was really going to happen when she left
the comfort of her parent’s home at an innocent age.
This elder passionately delved on this subject stating that
the generation that is getting married now is just playing games – that “they
have no real grasp of what they are getting themselves into or what will be
expected of them. They do not know how to handle themselves or manage that new
aspect of their lives. They also have no clue about the significance of a Kist
and what it symbolized in marriage, especially in the Zulu culture and
tradition”…
Do not keep up with the Zwane’s
Suddenly and momentarily, as though rehearsed, both our
attention shifts to the three ladies sitting on our right. Now this trio was
chatting about a funeral that one of them had attended a few blocks from where
we were. She articulates on how everything was kept to bare minimal at that
funeral. Contrary to what was happening at gog’Mokoena’s funeral, for that
particular family it was not the question of affordability. They just did not
want an extravagant funeral to impress the community and be left overextended, with
a dent in their pockets and a huge impact or change in their lifestyle after
the fact. She said people were only served pap with potatoes and no meat. It
all made sense and it was liberating to hear this yet still, a part of me found
that very hard to believe but then again - my thinking and having to keep up
with the Zwanes is exactly what drives people into debt…
My guess is that their topic fueled by what had earlier
happened to all of us at this funeral i.e. not enough transport and likely a
shortage of food to feed everyone that had come to support the family.
By S.J. Ngobeni (810111)
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