I’ve Attended Two Funerals This Year

BONA | 19

BONA, derived from the Zulu greeting to a multitude of people, 'Sanibona' - directly translated as 'we see you' - forms the premise of this publication, by Tebo Mpanza

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Mkhulu’Mpanza (Grandfather), Cousin Lulu & Gogo Mpanza

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It’s been a few weeks, and I’ve been thinking.

I grew up attending funerals. There seemed to be one every other weekend in eMlazi, the township I grew up in (for context on township life, my uncle sent me this yesterday—super interesting). Whether it was a close relative, a distant one, a neighbour, or a neighbour’s neighbour—we always showed up. There’s something powerful about weeping with those who weep and mourning with those who mourn. Just being there says something words can’t.

Sometimes I wonder if it was the food that kept people coming. These township funerals were big operations. You had the all-night vigil before—the umlindelo (the waiting)—then the 3-to-4-hour service the next day, the burial, and finally, the return to the family home where it was time to eat. After standing by you for nearly 24 hours (not to mention the daily services that week), of course you had to feed them.

I loved the food. I still remember what I call uCurry womngcwabo—the funeral curry. It was the same every time. No vegan or gluten-free options. Just beef curry. With rice and sides. Hundreds of plates dished out like it was the feeding of the five thousand. Then came the amaSweets—dessert. A colourful, chaotic mix of custard, tinned fruit, cream, jelly... and other things I still can’t name. It was a bit much. Not for me.

I don’t remember all the funerals from childhood. But I remember my grandmother’s. I was nine. My mom picked me up from school one Friday afternoon and didn’t say a word the whole drive. I can’t imagine the grief she was holding in. The weight of losing her mother while trying to protect her child from the same pain. Driving in silence, holding it all together so I didn’t have to. That kind of strength is quiet, and I see it more clearly now that I’m a parent myself.

We passed our family home, and I saw the tent. You only put up a tent if someone was getting married—or buried. And no one was getting married. We drove on to Gogo Msomi’s place up the road, my cousin Lulu’s Grandmother. That’s where my mom told me. I couldn’t hold the weight of it then. I was too young. But I remember that weekend in 1999 like it was yesterday.

Outside our family home, my uncle Malusi’s wedding day

I remember my Uncle Dumisani Mpanza’s funeral. He was the life and soul of every room. He used to call me Mr, a common Indian surname. I don’t know why. He would’ve loved my son, Maximilian. Maxi even looks a bit like him.

Uncle Dumisani

I remember Uncle Stan’s funeral—my dad’s brother. I flew back from England for that one. The first time I’d done that—for a funeral. That’s one of the costs of emigrating. I wish I’d known him better. He was always good to me.

And Bubba’s funeral—my cousin. Flew back again. He was young. A Mpanza. Left behind three boys. They seem estranged from the family now. I don’t like that. I hope we make that right one day. I hope we all try to make things right in our families while we still can. Their father was a brother to me. I miss him.

Now? I try to show up when I can. I’m at the age where some of my closest friends in the world are starting to lose their parents. We’re even loosing friends. It’s hard. We often don’t know what to say. We get it wrong. But we feel the pain.

My mom likes to tease me: Uyawuthanda umngcwabo. “You love a funeral.”

It’s not that I love them. But they remind me. They remind me to get my life in order. They remind me that we’re here for a short time. That this life isn’t even the destination. That it’s a gift.

I love the stories. You learn so much at funerals. I only learned at Gogo’s that her middle name was Angel. I never knew that. You never really knew adults’ names growing up. Everyone was Gogo this, Baba that, or Maka-so-and-so (mother of so-and-so). Gogo lived up to her name.

I love hearing from the friends. I love the sermons—they always land. And without fail, I wonder: what will be said about me? Who will show up? Who will get on a plane? Who won’t? What stories will they tell? What am I doing now that someone will remember? How am I living my life?

Last week I went to a funeral at my church. A young man I was only just getting to know. He made me feel like I could be myself. That matters. I’ll never forget him. The place was packed. So many stories. So much presence. So much love.

This life is a gift. We don’t have long.

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Gogo visiting Israel

She must have been sharing The Word of the Lord here or something

Nurse Gogo :)

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