I don't know how I came to the title of the post but it seemed perfect, because clearly after the storm, nothing stays the same. Everything changes, most usually for the worst. Storms literally shakes us off our comfort zones and there's nothing we can ever do to properly prepare ourselves for them. We'll just have to accept the situation as it is and gather the strength to move on, no matter how hard it is.
Losing my sister Tendani has to be the worst thing I've ever gone through in my young life. It's not that I have never lost a close relative before. I lost my maternal grandmother in 2011, who was the only grandparent I got to know. I lost my dad in 2012. I cried in my grandma's funeral, largely because I saw my mom crying(it's always an unpleasant sight to see a parent in such a helpless state). I also cried in my dad's funeral, because I was so worried about what his death meant for our well-being. Although he did not actually live with us(story for another day), he was the sole breadwinner. I never had a personal relationship with either my dad or my grandma. To my dad, I was just one of his many children and to my grandma, I was just one of her grandkids(no strings attached to both). With Tendani, it was different. She knew me, not just as her little brother but as Khangwelo.
I knew she was sick, she told us about her illness and she was very confident that she could survive it. She tried to be brave but I guess we can all reach a breaking point. Her illness got really worse few months before her death. I could hear the change in her voice whenever I called her. It got awkward when I spoke to her for the last time, exactly a week before she died. Her voice was soft and down and I could feel that even telling her that I was praying for her wasn't going to help her case. Other family members didn't really tell me the seriousness of her illness, I guess they didn't want to stress me. It was only when they were taking her to the hospital for the last time that I realised that things had gotten out of hand, the panic in my other sister's voice was obvious, my mom has always been the stronger one. I was shaking as I went to write a Company Law test that evening. But still, I had the hope that things were going to work out well.
With you far away and a family member on a deathbed, you really don't wanna receive a call from back home. But it was inevitable. On Sunday the 24th of April, my uncle called. The Lord has given, the Lord has taken. My worst fear has become a reality. I realised that it was no time to be a 'man' and started crying while I was still on the call. I was not ready. Nothing could have prepared me for that call, not even the fact that I knew she was sick. I found myself crying all alone in my big Forest Hill room, being both the comforter and the comforted. One thing I didn't wanna hear was how my mom and my sister's daughter were taking it, I didn't want to hear anything that would break me any further. At some point, calls had to be made and statuses had to be updated. I had to face the world and whatever I was going through head-on. ''What we cannot change, we have to accept'', the words of our deputy principal after the passing of our principal in my matric year echoed in my mind that day.
I had a lot of questions on my mind then, for which I had no answers. Will I make it to her funeral? Where will I get the money to take me back to Venda at such a short notice? will my family to give her a dignified funeral? what will happen to her only daughter Ndihone? will my mother, after losing her own mom and husband, be able to survive this?. The thoughts of not being at her funeral, her not getting a decent send-off due to financial constraints, Ndihone growing up without the motherly love we all deserve, and my mother tortured me that week. My family story has always been this that one of pain and tears but this was too much. It is better to be in to suffer in a group, to share a story with others but when one of you dies, it breaks all of you remaining. It kills the morale of the team. One of us was down, we had to look forward with our tear-dimmed eyes to make sure that we make the best of a very bad situation.
About going home for the funeral, I had friends who were planning to pay for my transport to and from Venda. But I had made up my mind that I wasn't going, because I thought that the money they would give me for transport could be better utilised at home for funeral arrangements than for transporting me. I convinced them that I would be fine even without going home to find closure. That was until I got a call from my friend Lutendo, who could not take a no from an answer. She managed to convince me to go home and that there would still be money to send home for arrangements. They bought my plane tickets and made sure that I had enough money for other necessities. I will forever be grateful for Lutendo's call and all my friends'contributions that ensured that I was able to get to Manamani on time to pay my last respects.
The funeral went well. Nothing was more comforting than the love of the people of Manamani, it's amazing how people are able to be there for each other, even without incentives. There's no time in which one could value living in a community more than in the time of death in a family. People coming to evening prayer services and the funeral service in numbers is just amazing. Tendani was undoubtedly the one who had more friends in the family(we are all friendly people at my house). Other than Ndihone, there's nothing that reminds me of Tendani more than her friends. It's fine now when I'm here in Cape Town but I don't know how it will make me feel when I see her friends when I go home, I can't bear their sight. I guess the send-off was at a level that I would consider dignified. The presence of the her comrades from the Pan Afrikanist Congress was felt, they went out of their way to send off one of their own.
After the funeral, there had to be a change in my family life as we know it. Her daughter Ndihone had to leave to stay with her father in Soweto. This left our house with only two people staying full-time, my mom and my younger brother Nungo. To think that we used to be very populated. I'm just glad Ndihone is with her other family and I am sure they will raise her into a girl that we will all be proud of. She will miss her mom, just as we all do and the warmth of the dad's love will strengthen her. I will surely miss their arguments, how they would always fight as they were both stubborn. My prayer is that we maintain a relationship with her, that her living with her dad's family doesn't make us neglect the responsibility to take care of her as far as we can.
My mom is doing well, although she avoids mentioning her name in our phone conversations and refers to her death as 'that thing'. Actually, all family members cannot freely talk about her or her death. I am hoping that as time goes on, we will openly talk about her and share our best moments with her. I guess that what she would have wanted. That can really help in our healing process.
If there's anything this has taught me, it is to appreciate life and the people in it. And now I don't fear death as much as I did before her death, I've realised that death actually happens to normal people, people we fight with, smile with, eat with and cry with. It's part of the human experience. We cannot avoid it. Her death has taught me to take advantage of the opportunities granted to me, as not many had them. To appreciate people more, as I don't know how much time I have with them.
As an Accounting student, I would say death is a provision, we know it will happen to us, we just don't know when. As a Tax student, I would say to the living, we are not exempt from dying, ours is just deferred. I will forever love you, Tendani.
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