Fresh grief

Death is serious business. It means the ending of a life of a person who once had dreams and aspirations that may or may not have been reached, but after the event of death, all is nullified and those dreams are terminated, if not bestowed upon the next generation for their longevity.

It was so with Reginald Demu wasebukhosini basePhuthini — a 75-year-old man from the South Coast of KwaZulu-Natal who took his last gulp of life-giving air in a hospital ward on the 11th floor of a hospital situated on Durban’s North Beach. His room had a beautiful view of the beach at dusk, but he never got to see it as he was bed-ridden and could not even bring himself to pick a glass of water at his bedside table to take a sip of the life-giving fluid.

A week and a bit ago, this man lost the fight for his life and gave in to old age, a rusty hip, a weakened heart and a badly damaged liver, which was probably brought on by a life well lived.

He fathered between seven and possibly nine children — I say possibly nine because the man that he was, he probably had a few of his offspring stashed away somewhere along the paths he used to travel throughout the countryside. It should be expected; the man was a stud, he fathered his last child at the age of 49 — his last child hopes he can go on doing the nasty that long too.

This man raised six of these children (the ones he had within the confines of matrimony), with much help from his very pragmatic wife. His offspring — who I must say didn’t turn out too badly on the most part, although they are probably not exactly the most well-adjusted individuals — have careers, are educated (somewhat) and have some form of family of their own or are busy fostering them.

His funeral was this past weekend, a real riot and family get-together of note where old friends reacquainted and new friendships were formed under the pretence of sharing the bereaved family’s grief. There was food and drink aplenty and laughter abounded between the preaching of the word and the loud and never-ceasing rant of preachers and women of the cloth.

At the wake on Friday, which was a week after the man had passed away, the music was dope and it made people stand up and dance (most of it) or shook them into the deepest pits of despair — if the choirmaster felt that the crowd was getting too buoyant for the “somber” occasion.

On that same day, I was also introduced to a new concept: fresh grief, about which my friend had spoken to me earlier on in the week. This is when people pitch up after the core family has come to grips with their grief — or is in the process of doing so — and then break down in tears and hysterics, throwing all the healing individuals back in to the throws of despair. Cue a complete revival of the grief and trauma of the close loved ones, as if they have just heard of the death of their beloved for the first time.

On Saturday, the ceremony went relatively well, bar the guy who thought that playing house music on the church grounds during a double funeral (don’t ask, it’s the Roman Catholic way) was a good idea.

It was a dignified ceremony indeed, I must say, even though no one seems quite sure about the correct sequence of events at these types of dos, despite the plan not having changed through the ages.

There is just too much aimless standing around and waiting for something to happen at these events, isn’t there? The sequence is always this simple: home (tears), church (tears), cemetery (tears) and back home again (tears of joy) for a bite to eat and a beer to sip — yet even to this day there is always a high prevalence of confusion about this well-rehearsed programme.

You’d think people would get it right since death is the one guarantee in our lives, and funerals occur every single weekend.

The events at the cemetery were also very dignified; it felt surreal, and still does, to think that this cunning man would never again hustle one for beer money or a nip of vodka, or call in an order of a packet of his beloved Rothmans smokes, which were his constant companions.

With six children and an army of grandchildren, could it be possible that he felt lonely and misunderstood and he found more comfort, more joy, in a burning stick of rolled dry leaves between his fingers and a glass of something cold and alcoholic clasped close to his chest? One now wonders — in retrospect.

Many people streamed in on Saturday afternoon, after the funeral, seeing a tent and having spotted a catering van outside the residence the previous evening as the make-shift chefs prepared the food throughout the night — intermediately obstructed by The-Powers-That-Callously-Shed at Eskom — and accompanied by a couple of cases of beer on ice and in cooler boxes and a few bottles of fine whisky and wine.

I must say, though, that by this time most of the grief had been shed and the hearts were lighter on the most part — except for one grandchild, a teenager with a kind and gentle soul, who I feel was the hardest hit by the departure of her grandfather, even though they had never been close and spent most of their time accusing each other of this or the other misdeed. I now believe that they truly loved each other. She slept throughout the post-funeral activities, which I’m sure she felt was a farce.

I had never seen her sleep during the day before, and I have known her all of her life.

The customary washing of the hands in a mixture of water and the contents of a goat’s stomach to purge the mourners of the darkness of the cemetery, and probably death itself, was followed by the serving of lunch, followed by boiled goat meat and then the much-awaited beverages.

When these came out, all grief was suddenly forgotten and the event took on the tune of a more joyous occasion. There was no more singing, no more crying, no more nervous smiles of condolence directed at the core members of the family; the mood became pregnant with expectation of the feat that was surely to proceed from this point on. A farce.

Of course, the business of grieving is and should be the sole right of the bereaved family. And this family should, as it is right, humbly indulge those that came from far and wide to pay their last respects to and honour the life of the deceased.

However, having said all of that and understanding the circumstances that make it necessary and acceptable for people to indulge in activities typically joyous after a funeral, I have a few questions to ask not only of you reading this, but even of myself:

Is it acceptable to feel less grief because the deceased person was old?

Is it acceptable to serve alcohol at funerals?

Is it acceptable to laugh and have a generally good time at funerals?

Why do we not celebrate the lives of those we love while they are still around?

Why is it so hard to tell members of your family that you do, in fact, hold them dear?

Why have we lost the dignity of a funeral?

Why do we insist on a family visibly showing grief for the deceased, not knowing the circumstances in which the person passed?

Why do we judge and rate funerals on catering, bus service and booze?

Why is it necessary for you to ask me how a funeral was? What are my options here?

What’s my grief window — can it be quantified, so I may revert to my normal loud and nasty self?

Expensive coffins: What gives?

I do, of course, understand where people are coming from with their customs when it comes to funerals. I may not understand how they are still relevant in this day and age, but I understand them and I accept them. But to return the day after the funeral, not to help out the family clean up the yard, pack up chairs, fold tents, return pots, throw away rubbish and carry the gas stove, but to eat and drink whatever was left? Come on!

I guess it’s just that I believe that the celebration of the life of a man that sadly I only came to truly understand and love in the past five years deserved more. I do not know what more it is that I wish for, but I needed more and possibly still do.

Maybe it is just that my grief shall stay fresh.

Reginald Demu wasePuthini

I rest,
The Sumo