Halo from above

RRE Molemi wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. They tricked him sometimes, made him see things no one else did. He removed his specs, puffed on the lenses and wiped them clean before looking at the Tsalanang sky again. Only once before in his eighty plus years had he ever seen such a sight: a shimmering white ball, enclosed in a silver circle. A day after, Tsalanang River had overflowed, drowning livestock, washing away homes. His beloved grandmother had closed her eyes forever.

When Boikhutso called to ask if he had seen the halo in the sky, he felt relieved. It was a sign, he explained to his daughter. There would be lots of rain. There would be dying too - of a big person. She told him she didn’t believe in such things. She would check on him the following day.

As he lay down to sleep that night, Rre

Molemi returned to his childhood when his grandmother told him stories that began with “Gatwe erile”. Her stories recreated a time when the chosen ones kept the earth soft, summoned the rains and healed the sick. Then the missionaries arrived with orders for the people to shred their ways, wear theirs. Those who refused were labelled heathens and warned that locusts would mark their foreheads so they would never enter heaven. His grandmother warned of what would happen if the people of Tsalanang did not honour their old ways. Clouds gathered but refused to release the rain they carried; years of drought followed.

He had yearned to follow his grandmother’s teachings, to hold close the beautiful times she described, but his mother and father chose to follow the new ways. Raised on stories of what vultures did to children who disobeyed their parents, he did as they ordered.

As he lay on his bed, Rre Molemi imagined what his great grandchildren would say when they heard that once upon a time, people used to greet with touch: shaking hands or wrapping their arms around the other person’s body. He imagined them saying, “those must have been beautiful times”.

He wondered what they would think when they learnt that once upon a time, when a person’s days on earth ended, the one who had died was kept cold for days as family and friends, even foes and strangers gathered. That there was singing and praying that sometimes carried on through the night, till dawn. It was meant to ease the pain of loss. There could be hundreds of people - all come to say till we meet again. These thoughts kept Rre Molemi awake that night, but when he finally closed his eyes, he was smiling. He was sure he heard his beloved wife calling his name.

Rainclouds were gathering, darkening the morning skies when Boikhutso arrived in Tsalanang. She called out to her father as she unlocked the front door. There was no answer. Something made her run to his room. Rre

Molemi lay still, eyes closed, with a hint of a smile on his face.

She remembered then, the white sun with a silver ring around it. She heard the raindrops turning to hailstones, pounding the roof. Death had arrived. Death of a big person.