It felt as though he had barely gone to sleep when he was abruptly awakened.
“Wake up, David. Wake up, please.” Kubu opened his eyes to see his mother shaking him by the shoulder.
“I have made a big mistake,” she continued. “A big mistake.”
“What is it, Mother?” Kubu muttered.
“When we went shopping, we bought food for four hundred people. I thought it was enough. But everyone is telling me that it is likely to be closer to one thousand.”
“One thousand?” Kubu sat up. This was going to cost a fortune. “That’s not possible, is it?”
“Today is Friday, and the funeral is tomorrow. We will have to go shopping right away, David. And we will have to buy two large pots as well. The church only has two. We can donate them to the church afterward.”
Kubu tried to get his mind around this news.
“But we will not have to buy as much meat as we did before,” Amantle continued. “Wilmon’s friends have brought a cow, and they will kill it this evening. Then we can carve it up and use it. It is so very kind of them.”
* * *
THAT AFTERNOON, THE funeral festivities—there really was no other name for them—moved to the church kitchen and hall. Dozens of women helped Amantle prepare prodigious amounts of pap, beef seswaa, and samp and beans—a process that would last all night with waves of helpers coming and going.
The men, on the other hand, had it easy. Mochudi was a big enough town that there was a small backhoe at the cemetery to dig the graves. So they had the time to sit around, talk, and enjoy a lot of beer, both St. Louis and Shake Shake. Kubu would have preferred a glass of red wine but decided against opening a bottle because he would have had to share it with people he didn’t know, whose taste buds were better attuned to the revolting Shake Shake beer.
When Joy, Tumi, and Nono arrived in the late afternoon, he only had time to give them each a hug and a kiss before they all headed to the church kitchen to be with Amantle. He felt a bit put out. His mother had lots of company, and he felt quite lonely in the crowd.
Early in the evening, a hearse arrived with an elaborate coffin. Here was an opportunity for the men to help. They put down their beers and carried the coffin into the church, where the funeral-home attendant unscrewed the top and slid it open so that Wilmon’s face could be seen. Almost immediately, women began to ululate and shout prayers. A line formed, and people shuffled up to pay their last respects. Kubu stood at the back of the church, overcome with emotion. This was the last time he would see his father.
It’s amazing, Kubu thought. His mother had arranged everything, and he, Kubu, had done virtually nothing. But that was the way of things in traditional funerals.
* * *
THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, preparations progressed, punctuated with prayers and singing, not organized, but rather different groups spontaneously standing and lifting their voices. Kubu found it very moving even as he felt exhaustion slowly taking hold. He didn’t dare to lie on one of the couches in the hall lest he fall fast asleep. His mother would never forgive him.
As dawn broke, a bakkie arrived with several men on the back, holding large urns. “I hope it’s coffee,” Kubu said to the man standing next to him—a man Kubu had never seen before. Fortunately, it was, and lines soon formed. People needed something to keep them going until ten a.m., when the service was due to start. When Kubu reached the urn, he filled three Styrofoam cups with coffee, milk, and sugar—two for him and one for his mother.
Around eight, people started to drift home to change into their finest clothes for the service. Amantle only had one black dress, so she stayed, but Kubu went and donned his only suit.
* * *
THE CHURCH WAS full for the service. Fortunately for the hundreds of people outside there were a few clouds to break the oppressive heat. When the service was over, the crowd moved toward the grave in a long procession, led by Amantle, Kubu, Joy, Tumi, and Nono. The air was filled with songs and ululations.
At the grave, the casket was poised above the hole, ropes in place. Close by was a small awning, erected to protect the dignitaries from the sun. When all in the procession had arrived, the priest said a few final words and asked if anyone would like to speak. It was an hour before he turned to Kubu. “It is your turn,” he said.
Kubu pushed himself to his feet, mopped his brow, and took the microphone.
“Dumela. Amantle, Wilmon’s wife, and I want to thank you for your support. It is overwhelming.” He used both his arms to illustrate the extent of the crowd.
“Our family will miss Wilmon a great deal, as I know you will.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Those who spoke before me praised my father as he deserved, and I’m not going to repeat what they have already said. But I have to say, as his son, that I couldn’t have had a better father. He brought me up to respect the traditions of our people, but he also saw the future and made sure that I had an education that would enable me to raise a family in a changing world. He was wise and tolerant and fair. But he also demanded obedience.” He paused. “I remember the first time I came home late for dinner—I had been playing with one of my friends in the hills—and the time slipped away from us. He took me behind the house, made me bend over, and gave me six lashes with a reed. I don’t think it was actually sore, but I thought it was and cried for about an hour. And I didn’t have any dinner.” Kubu smiled. “I never missed dinner again!”
As the crowd laughed at the thought of him missing a meal, Kubu looked around, trying to locate Mabaku, whom he knew would be there. Fortunately, Ian MacGregor’s white face stuck out from the throng, and Kubu saw Mabaku standing next to him.
“But I do have something to say which I ask you all to listen to very carefully.” He paused and surveyed the faces in front of him.
“My father was murdered, as most of you know.” There was a buzz from the crowd and several shouts and ululations.
“As of today, we don’t know who did it. We don’t know why he was killed. We don’t know why such a man, whom we all loved, was taken from us.”
Kubu had to pause as the noise swelled.
“He was a good man!”
The noise level increased.
“He was a man of and for the community!”
He had to wait again.
“He was a man who respected every one of you. And helped you with his medicines when he was able. Helped you with his wisdom when he could.”
Kubu looked at Mabaku, but he was too far away to tell the director’s mood.
“And someone killed this man whom you all loved. Murdered my father. Took him away before his time.”
Now the crowd was getting agitated and angry.
That’s enough, Kubu thought. Now I must bring them down. He used his arms to indicate he wanted quiet.
“My father would ask you to do what he would do if a friend of his was killed. If you have any information that may help the police find the man who murdered my father, please tell Director Mabaku, who is standing over there.” Kubu pointed in the direction of his boss. “Or any policeman anywhere. But don’t tell me because it will make me more angry than I am already. And I don’t want that.”
He looked over the crowd.
“We will now lay my father to rest. Ke a leboga. Thank you. Tsamaya sentle. Go well.”
Kubu and a group of Wilmon’s friends took hold of the ropes and slowly lowered the casket into the grave. Amantle stood up, walked to the grave, tears flowing freely, and threw the first bunch of flowers onto the casket. And for the next hour and a half, people filed by the grave throwing in a handful of dirt or some flowers. They then offered Amantle and Kubu their condolences and worked their way to the church hall, where mountains of refreshments awaited.
Eventually, the line disappeared, and Kubu and a few of Wilmon’s friends took turns using the solitary shovel to fill in the rest of the grave. When it was finished and the canvas cover moved into place, Kubu stood alone at the grave.
“Good-bye, Father,” he whispered. “Everything I have, I owe to you.”
He turned and headed to the much needed refreshment table.