Chats about age are a regular thing in our home. They’re usually instigated by my first-born. He lives in the future. Always thinking ahead, surmising what he will be or do at whatever older age.

 

But last night, it was KG who made Mr T. and I lock eyes across the kitchen in a silent stare that signaled our loss for words. The banter was around being an adult – I can’t remember how it got there – but he said, “If you’re an adult you’ll be 100 years old and then you’ll pass away”.

 

That “pass away” is what made us stop. We’ve kept our children relatively free of current affairs since birth – no radio or TV news is consumed in their midst. Especially now during the health pandemic. And the closest death we’ve had during this time is Aunty D which we had to share with them.

 

We’re barely through the third wave and a fourth one is imminent.

 

I’ve been thinking about death and funerals over the past few days as the profound loss that humanity is experiencing during this time is not abating; instead, it’s escalating. We’re barely through the third wave and a fourth one is imminent. Even as the vaccination rollout gains momentum, albeit slowly, here on the southern tip of Africa.

 

So, hearing KG enunciate his thoughts on death made me realise that the spirit of loss is running so deep within our society. One doesn’t even need to be directly influenced; it’s absorbed by osmosis.

 

Experiencing death within my immediate family during my teens engineered my apathy around hope during those years through to my 30s. You see, what hope could one have, when one’s mother, sister and paternal grandmother were taken away within a 20-month period? How does that happen to a young family?

 

How many funerals should one attend in one’s lifetime?

 

It also influenced my feelings around death and funerals. After sitting in the front row at these funerals, so early in life, it tore my spirit down the centre. For many years. How many funerals should one attend in one’s lifetime?

 

This left me bereft at any funeral I attended thereafter. The emotions it resurrected, the pain and heartache were primarily for myself and my loss. An opportunity to let tears flow without having to explain myself. Someone had died. Regardless of who.  

 

I have an image of my mother at her mother’s funeral. On a dull, rainy day in Ixopo, a village in Kwazulu-Natal, my maternal family home. It was at the grave side, oh how I dislike the grave side rituals. It’s such a dramatic moment of separation.

 

If there was research on when emotions are the highest at funerals, I’m sure it’s at the grave side. There’s this thing about the coffin being lowered into the ground; the last time you will ‘see’ your loved one.  

 

At my grandmother’s funeral, I remember looking up at the adults, feeling lost amidst the heaps of red wet sand. I can’t remember seeing the coffin as I was crowded in by a forest of adults. I was 7 years old and it was a cold July day in 1980, pretty normal for that part of the country. I watched, bewildered, as my mother clung onto my father as she cried hard.

 

Little did I know that I would come to understand her pain just nine years later.

 

And my little heart didn’t understand the full extent of the trauma. Little did I know that I would come to understand her pain just nine years later.

 

So, I don’t like funerals. I particularly don’t like the descending of all and sundry en masse on the mourning family and individuals. I find it an invasion. Death forces us into the moment. And it’s in that very moment, that the grieving are not given space to process the loss. Instead, they must deal with arbitrary individuals, the hustle and bustle of people in and out coming to ‘pay their respects’.

 

Then there’s the funeral arrangements. What photo must be used on the service leaflet? What flowers? And the food? And in the time of COVID-19, who makes it within the 50-person quota? There’s no time to think.

 

Is there any surprise that funerals are also hot beds of anger and frustration?

 

Each time a new person comes in; the story of ‘how it happened’ has to be relayed. More tears. But no time to mourn. Then within a few days, there’s the funeral. Again, hordes of people. Is there any surprise that funerals are also hot beds of anger and frustration? Latent tensions explode under the guise of sadness.

 

Then, after that. The hordes disappear. And when the family and individuals really need support. Everyone is gone. Life moves on. They’re left to hobble through their emotional minefield. Never fully whole again. The mourning process begins; for some, it can last a lifetime.

 

Let me be clear, the bereaved need support. Lots of it. From their inner circle. Think of it as the ‘Special Forces’. Those who will come in and take care of things, make the process smoother. Not the hangers on. Those coming to sit in the lounge, waiting for the makoti or whoever to make tea and serve biscuits. Or for the social currency, to get the news first-hand. Go away.

 

One should be emotionally intelligent enough to understand where they fall within the relationship stratum.

 

Distant or absent relatives, friends and colleagues are not welcome at this time. One should be emotionally intelligent enough to understand where they fall within the relationship stratum. We need to be respectful of this.

 

Culture, you say. Fortunately, COVID-19 is showing us that there are parts of our culture that no longer serve us. By the way, there is ample time – the rest of the surviving individuals’ lives, actually – to show your respect, support, and love. Trust me, that’s when they need it most.

 

The remnants of the pain, illness and death of this era will remain with us for generations. We’re a nation of mourners. I pray for our collective healing and strength as we brave our way through the storm.

 

You’re entitled to your views; these are mine.