The Mortuary

The mortuary,

The world says I should not talk, or write about the mortuary. I disagree.

I didn’t know what to expect. I had last seen my father in October 2008. My father and I had last hugged in 2008, on a day just before my 27th birthday. I had seen the mortuary on TV; I had heard stories of the spine-chilling mortuary.

May 7, 2009: My mother’s sister’s husband – uncle Kaizer – expertly drove me to the mortuary, in my sister’s Toyota Run X. My mother’s brother, uncle Willy, was by my side. Rre Kgasa, my father’s cousin, Goora Kgasa’s Ralekgotla, or Headman, was by my side. We all went to the mortuary.

I was terrified, anxious, happy, angry, and numb en route to the mortuary. While we were waiting just outside the Kanye SDA hospital mortuary, where we would transfer my father to another mortuary, a private mortuary, Pule Funeral Service. I saw him passing, he looked towards the quartet, he bowed his head, and like the praying emoji put his hands together. Thanking him, I raised my hand up high. He kept going. I want to thank him too: that my brother comforted me.

Metlha, too, took me to the mortuary, to meet my father. I have never thanked him. Today I thank him.

Now, myself, too, I want to drive someone to the mortuary and be by his or her side. I want to then bow my head, put my hands together, and hope they are comforted.