Thursday, 18 July 2013

SECRETS TO THE GRAVE


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

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