Thabo Mdlalose died exactly like he had lived, silently. In the language of the African people south of the equator, he had woken up quietly or cold. As scores of people were to vouch in his memory, he had lived his entire life like a sheep.
The controversy of Thabo started at his birth. From his first yawn, it became clear he was much lighter in complexion compared to his siblings who were of a more darker hue. Grandmothers in the family, who were known to be harbourers of deep family secrets, after carefully inspecting his tiny feet, concluded his toes resembled those of a great ancestor who had ascended to the spirit world many generations ago. No one could dispute this claim of the grand old ladies because no one was old enough to have known this great ancestor.
A dark cloud seemed to shadow his life as he grew up. Not being the brightest of his peers, he dropped out of school after repeatedly failing to go beyond standard five at an advanced age of seventeen. He only stopped peeing on his bed at the age of twelve. He was not fortunate when it came to finding work as white people in the kitchens felt he was not good enough to till their gardens. The elders in the community asked “what kind of bird sang to that boy? Though the family knew there was something amiss about him they could never put their finger on it. So they sought divine help from the seers of note. After consulting his bones, the traditional healer suggested a ritual ceremony should be held for Thabo which would require the slaughtering of a white goat and the brewing of traditional beer.
He also alluded to the fact that the boy should be given his proper surname but no one seemed to understand what he meant. Thabo’s mother dismissed the seer as a charlatan, while his father, who had been against consulting the inyanga in the first place, maintained they were a family of believers who did not subscribe to the backward notion of ancestral worship.
So Thabo grew up in a haze. But he was a lively and likeable fellow of humble spirit. He was ubiquitous and known all over the township for his humble nature and generosity of spirit. Some people claimed, and indeed they repeated this claim in the funeral, that he was more popular than the money lenders who provided a valuable service to the community.
Thabo was always eager to lend a helping hand where it was needed. Whenever there was a goat or cow to be slaughtered he was the first to arrive with his knife with the legend Okapi inscribed on it. Whenever there was a cigarette to be lit he was always on standby with a box of matches so he could pull in a few smokes. In any funeral he could always be relied on to do the spadework zealously. He was never short of money as he performed all sorts of odd jobs like washing people’s cars for a tip rather than a salary.
At local taverns he cleaned and polished tables so he could guzzle half empty beers from patrons. He could be seen occasionally pushing a wheelbarrow to the bottle store to buy a few cases for the shebeen owners. People said he was much better than his loafer friends who manned street corners in the township called “tollgates” asking for money donations from passers by.
Every man and woman has needs. Thabo was also rumoured to console divorcees, widows and other women not so fortunate when it comes to men in more ways than one. For in all honesty, he was quite a look-able fellow. In the night vigil people wailed uncontrollably. And widows and divorcees wailed even more as if there was prize money at stake. For it is part of the rich township tradition that people should cry in order to console the bereaved.
Beer, traditional and western, tea accompanied by cakes flowed freely inside and outside the camp. Old women wearing doeks and draped in scarves cried and sobbed softly underneath the blankets. And community members paid their last respects in heated testimonies.
“When I saw this boy my fellow brethren, I used to be happy, I used to be happy my fellow brethren because this boy was forever laughing, not once did I see him frown and not once did I see him raise his voice to anyone. I never heard this boy say nxa to anyone bazalwane, amen! I used to be happy bazalwane when I passed that corner everyday and I would see this boy smoking the shadow of chickens with his friends. I used to be happy my fellow brethren because young men these days including girls smoke all forms of drugs from cocaine to heroin to ecstasy, I hear these days there is even a new drug called Taiwan, and another one called tik tik because it makes your mind tik tik like a clock, but all this boy ever did was smoke his green grass in a pipe” To which all the congregants in the tent will shout a spirited Hallelujah! Uyingcwele Jehova! A woman would take up the song “Izulu, indawo, yokuphumula, alungen’ uvalo!
Another spirited person would stand up in fired testimony: As I stand here in front of you my fellow brethren, having entered this yard of the Mdlaloses, I say to you the Mdlaloses, it is true, the soil is never fattened up, you must find consecration in the Lord Jesus Christ who said to us all of you who are hungry and thirsty, come to me I will carry your load for you amen!
As I stand before you my beloved in the Lord, I feel jealous, I feel jealous because I envy this young hero, who has finished his journey, and now the issue is between me and you my fellow brethren, we need to ask ourselves, have we sorted out our controversy with Jesus Christ, because he promised us he will collect us one by one and he will come like a thief at night.
Someone, perhaps to cut a long testimony short would interject with a chilling song: Lemini iyeza nakuwe. A woman would rise up to speak: This boy was like a son to me bazalwane bami, I knew him before he was born, I used to send him on errands and he would run so fast he would come back before the spittle has dried out on the ground. He would come to me for a visit and we would laugh about nothing. The night before he passed away he came to my house and we shared jokes as usual and he left shortly after that, little did I know bazalwane he had come on that day to say his goodbyes” and the woman would break down and cry.
Someone would console with a song again: Ningakhali bazalwane bami, sahlukene umzuzwana nje, ezulwini sobonana futhi. It is said that people laugh even in the midst of death, occasionally, a township idiot or a drunkard would provide a humorous moment with a statement like: Nami bazalwane I am just standing up, I have nothing to say really, I just wanted to stress on what has already been said…to which his friends would pull him down in hushed tones.
On the day of the funeral the pastor gave a spirited sermon. People said he was fired up by the bottle of Mellow Wood that he had been drinking from the previous night. The pastor stressed to the mourners they should never lie to the children but always tell them the truth because people have a tendency of coming back demanding the truth even beyond the grave. He told the story of an uncle who assured his dying nephew that he need not worry because he was going to haydes to rest in the chest of Abraham. The departed boy came back to his uncle in a dream saying he cannot find the resting place of haydes and the chest of Abraham.
‘He was a nice guy’, commented the clean shaven man in dark sunglasses to a beautiful lady in a black veil and hat.
‘Kunjalo, it is so’ responded the woman, ‘did you know him well?
“Ngisho nakwaMadala ejudeni, I did not know him at all” the man said.
“I did not know him either” the woman said.
None of the mourners found this conversation strange. For it is common nature in the township to attend the funeral of a person you have never known in their lifetime. At most times, knowing one member of the bereaved family is enough but very often one does not even have to know the bereaved family for as the Zulu people say: you do not pass by when you see a house under construction, you come in and give a hand, so it is with feasts and funerals.
After all the proper rituals had been observed the time came for the coffin to be lowered down the grave. The strangest thing happened, the coffin would not move from the ground. Stronger and more brawny men, in an effort to expose the weaklings were called upon but still the coffin would not budge. Scores of men tried their luck in lowering the deceased but the coffin would still not move an inch. There was a huge murmur and suppressed gossip amongst the mourners. Some thing like that had never been seen amongst these shores though others vouched it happens all the time when the deceased is angry about something. An impromptu family meeting was called but did not yield any positive results. Incense was burnt to plead with the ancestors to tone down their anger but still the coffin would not move. It is said that that which fails men must be reported, so the matter was brought before the community elders. A sagely greying old man was convinced the truth lay with the mother of the boy. The mother screamed and squealed uncontrollably. Many people, convinced they had diagnosed the root of the problem, pleaded with her and then demanded she talk the truth about the paternity of the boy. Thabo’s mother finally relented and confessed the father of the boy was Khumalo opposite their house. A shaken Khumalo was called to intervene. He went to speak to the coffin, calling on the Mashobanes, the mzilikazis, the mntungwas to tone down their anger. He pleaded with the ancestors, apologising to his son by praising him with all the family clan names. The weather suddenly cleared. People easily lifted up the coffin and lowered it into the ground. Finally, Thabo Khumalo had spoken the last word, people said.
