The day is
gray and cold as the faces of the mourners. Dry leaves fall from the nearby
trees as frequent as the widow's tears. The wind is blowing the voices of the
funeral singers to the grave in grieving hisses. Silence has befallen the
atmosphere. I sit snug under mother's wing. She keeps sniffing and heaving sigh
after sigh but still, I do not understand why. All the faces around me are
unfamiliar to my memory. I have never met these people before today. I must
say, they all look awfully sad.
The pastor
takes his stand by the foot of the grave. Another sermon, I think to myself in
dismay. I could be kicking ball with my friends if it weren't for my father's
funeral. So I sit tight and listen to what the man of God has to say about the
deceased. He clears his throat with a cough, “Beloved brethren and sisters. We
are gathered this morning to give farewell to Jobe Dhliwayo …” he started his
speech and lost me at “Jobe Dhliwayo”. So that was his name, Jobe. That means
I'm not a Moyo like mother but a Dhliwayo on the portrait by the graveside. I
look at the picture once more and shiver. Its not that cold but the
resemblance is inevitable to the familiar face I see every morning in the
mirror. Thrills can't help but take a trip down my spine. A piercing shrill
from a seemingly disturbed woman in black dress draws me back to the pastor's
eulogy. I'm sure she is the widow.
I thought
funerals were all sad and discreet, but the women behind us prove it is a good
place to brew gossip. From what they say the deceased and the widow never had
any children. No wonder she is grieving this much, she has no souvenir. Some
elderly women comfort her to calm sobs; her wailing had disturbed the pastor.
“He had been
a good, kind loving man…” the pastor continues. I'm pulled back to my thoughts
of this stranger mother says is my father. A good man who has never sought his
son? What good was he if he never bothered to be part of our lives? What loving
man never marries a woman he impregnates? “…like a plant sewn in good land he
had strong morals and a good foundation in the Lord. Like we all know some
trees yield and some don’t. Jobe was a fruitless tree but his efforts of hard
work flowered in other areas of his life”, I can't listen to more. I do not
mean to steal the show but it seems no one in this funeral knows about me. Not
even the pastor or the widow.
He must have been ashamed
of me and my mother. They think he was barren,” a fruitless tree” yet I am here
at his funeral. I look at mother; she is crying her sighs have turned to sobs.
I'm more confused. I do not understand why a woman who had never told me I had
a father would seem to care at his funeral. I storm away from her embrace to
the trees in tears. Mind you I'm not grieving this stranger's death but hurt he
never cared. She comes after me to console me and I blurt out “i hate him”.
Mother weeps and shocks me once more, she had never told Jobe about my
existence. He did not know about me and is laid to rest with the ignorance of
his fruitfulness.
by Heather ”ZebraDaughter” Dube
I can relate...touching
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