Sweat, dust, tears and laughter for a well-loved gentleman
My father passed away two Thursdays ago. He would have been 80 last Wednesday, the day of his funeral. Consistent with men of his generation, he was commonly referred to by his initials, as EB Ngcobo. A popular educator, choral music fundi, choir conductor, music composer and a well-loved gentleman. A natty dresser. A notorious ladies’ man. A raconteur, known for his proficiency in the art of ribbing friends and family. But more importantly, a man with a sharp sense of humour and the ability to laugh at himself.
A near-fatal 2016 head-on collision in the Valley of a Thousand Hills, his birthplace and home at the time of his passing, had left him immobile from a broken hip for over two years. Last year, he started walking again, with the aid of a stick. I remember the first time he showed off to Mrs N that he could walk again. He got off the bed, took a few steps chanting, “Amahheda! Amahhed’ umntwana!” That’s a popular chant to encourage babies when they start walking, meaning “Look at the baby walking on its own.” We were in stitches.
Humour. It is the go-to place in times of deep sorrow for many of us. On the day of his burial, I woke up at 05h50. This was six minutes before the official sunrise at Mnamatha in Botha’s Hill. In rural KwaZulu-Natal, the grave is dug only at dawn, on the morning of the funeral, by men from the village. Any earlier is taboo. And no electronic excavators. Just picks and shovels. This partially explains why our funerals are daylong affairs that usually end at dusk.
As the senior son, I was tasked with managing the digging process, which involves identifying the exact location of the grave. The duties also include being the first person to have a go at the digging. Owing to my hate-hate relationship with manual labour, I was looking forward to this like President Ramaphosa looks forward to putting on a mask in public again. After about 10 pathetic, weak blows that hardly removed a few blades of grass, a burly fellow yelled, “Enough, Ngcobo. Move over. You’ve tickled the ground enough.” A burst of laughter. And the tone for the rest of the digging session was set — the thud of picks shifting the soil and raucous laughter.
At some point, a neighbour who is well-endowed in the chest region took his turn with the pick. His mammaries jiggled violently with each stroke.
After a short, awkward silence, a tiny voice at the back yelled, “Dammit! The twin Clover factories are experiencing an earthquake over there!”, followed by a burst of laughter.
No sooner had the giggles subsided than another voice piped up, “Alukatshodi kodwa ubisi lwakhe?” (Has his milk not turned sour already?) More laughter. What brought the house down is someone else offering, “And that, gentlemen, is how Mooi River butter is churned.”
By this time my face was a wet, messy mixture of sweat, dust, tears and snot. My ribs hurt. A chap with an untidy beard took over the pick. It wasn’t too long before someone asked him if he’d heard of this “new invention” called Gillette shaving blades. The response from someone else was, “That one doesn’t own a shaving razor. He uses the shards of broken bottles.”
Another chap was meticulous when it came to digging perfect corners. Someone said it was apparently a tell-tale sign that he’d spent his youth tending to the gardens of white people in the nearby suburbs of Hillcrest and Kloof. His “missus” had clearly appeared in the doorway with a steaming enamel cup of black Trinco tea and thick slices of brown bread and strawberry jam, yelling, “Keep the corners sharp Jeremiah OK?!”
The digging process is usually a good opportunity for the men of the village to discuss social and political issues. It was therefore only a matter of time before the conversation turned to Covid-19. Cabinet ministers’ performances were rated. There was general agreement that the star of the show is Dr Zweli Mkhize. Minister Cele got the worst reviews. Someone said his first name, Bheki, is actually short for bhekutshwala (Search for alcohol). This inevitably led to a discussion about the lack of booze, bootlegging and the crazy prices of alcohol on the black market. There was consensus that the ban on alcohol is pointless because, as someone pointed out, “Take out a R100 note right now and order beer. Within 10 minutes you’ll have it. Just don’t specify how many you want because you may get only two for your R100, or four depending on the source.”
By the time I went back to the house to get ready for the funeral service, my spirits were high. Later I imagined what “EB” Ngcobo would have made of all this. I know he’d laugh out loud and ask me, “Seniqedile ukumba umphelandaba wami?” (Are you done digging my ultimate hole?) And then he’d chant some of our clan praise names.
Fuz’ afulele! Masiyamahle sengathi azoshumayela! Qadi! Wena kaNgcobo kaVumezitha kaMaphutha kaTembe!
A burst of laughter, and the tone for the rest of the digging session was set — the thud of picks shifting the soil and raucous laughter