My Gran's funeral was difficult. There were too many emotions running around unguarded, too many vegetables to be chopped and grated, too many elders to cater to, too many children to ensure stay full and warm. But it went off without a hitch.
We sang, we cooked, we cried and we laid to rest a hero.
Gogo would have turned 69 two days ago, but the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. She was the cornerstone of her home. Mkhulu was distraught, his best friend, his arch-enemy, his provider, his washing machine, his stove, his blanket has finished the race before him.
My uncles and aunt were left exposed, their shield had been put down. It's funny how no matter how old you are Mummy is still Mummy and Daddy is still Daddy. It's strange how grief manages to bring people closer together, something happiness rarely achieves. We held each other and tried hard to convince each other that life will go on. It broke my heart to see my family broken, trying hard not to show the cracks. I should let it be known that I come from a family of conquerers, survivors but on Thursdays we call each other heroes. These people don't only weather the storm they welcome it.
The good thing about Gogo's funeral was that I got to see cousins I didn't even know were born and it just drove home the fact of how long it had been since I'd seen my gran. Reminiscent with her life she brought people together, even in death she whispers "hold on to each other"
Lala ngekuthula Sifundza.
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