I stayed at Jonas Mnguni's house for the first 8 weeks of my stay in South Africa. He was born in 1935 on a rural farm in South Africa. He helped raise 3 children while growing vegetables and livestock. I was born in 1983 in the U.S. and I traveled thousands of miles from my home to help improve a South African village and its schools. We were from two totally different times and worlds.
He spent most of his days while I was there sitting in the tin shack behind the house where they maintained a fire so that they would always have hot water. I would return from my classes at the end of the day and find him sitting in the corner of the smoke-filled shack and greet him by removing my hat and saying "Lotjhani". In their culture, you show respect for a man by removing your hat when entering his home. It really didn't seem like much to me but my host sister said her father told her that he really appreciated it because he could tell I understand his culture and respect him.
To spend time with him I would enter the shack and find him sitting in a chair, barely moving with his eyes glazed over from the smoke. I would sit on one of the homemade straw mats, not out of respect but because my eyes would dry out and start burning. I would try to use some of my new vocab by saying "Ninjani?", "Ngilambile" ("How are you?", "I'm hungry"). Although it was menial, if he wasn't impressed he was at least amused.
One night I decided to grill chicken on that fire in the shack for the family. He sat there the whole time not saying much, just watching. We (98 year-old grandma, mother, father, sister, two brothers) were sitting around the fire and I wanted to try to flex my isiNdebele skills so I said "Ngibawa Ngifuna Fakwa" because the I needed a dish cloth to remove a pot from the fire. The first time I said it, no one responded. I said it two more times to no response. So I asked "can I have a dishcloth please?". "Fakwa" when said with my American accent sounded like "Phaka" (pronounced "Paga") which means "Everybody, please put in" (confusing thing to say to a bunch of people sitting around a fire). My sister Betty, who speaks the best English of them all pointed out that I meant to say "faduku" meaning "dish cloth" and explained what I was trying to say in isiNdebele. I have never seen my father or any of them laugh that hard for that long over my linguistic blunder. I couldn't tell if I was crying from the laughter, the smoke, or the onions I just cut. It was one of those odd moments where I realized how unique this situation was and how lucky I am to be here.
At the beginning I noticed how his health seemed to be declining and he seemed to be getting sicker. I asked Betty if he was okay and she would just reply with "he has the flu". "Has the flu" is code for being having any illness ranging from a cold to being about to die. He would go to the clinic and get a "vaccination" and then be chipper and moving around well but then he'd get sick again soon after. Due to his continuous decline in health, I was not surprised when I got the news that he died neither was I particularly saddened.
On the day before the funeral they slaughtered a bull to be eaten at the gathering following the burial the next day. They explained that when an Ndebele man dies they kill a bull and a cow when a woman dies. They cornered it in a small pen and then wrapped a rope around its head then tightly around a post until the bull could barely move. The experienced elder took a small knife and thrust it into the back of its head right below the base of the skull severing the spine. The bull fell to its knees as they slit it's throat. It laid on the ground thrashing and struggling to breathe and it made me wonder if that is what it is like to die slowly of a sickness. Just sitting around waiting for your body to give in. As they slaughtered it using a variety of knives and axes I had a quick thought of how uncivilized it seemed. Then I quickly realized that the only difference between having a steak dinner in honor of someone's death and this is that they do the dirty work. The way that the men from the village came together to slaughter the cow was an amazing display of tradition.
The funeral was the next day and began with a lot of chanting, singing, and readings from the bible at the house. We proceeded to the graveyard for the burial and then there was more chanting, singing, reading, and family and important people saying a few words about him. Since I am not a blood relative and just moved to the community I was shocked when they asked me to say a few words. I spoke about how different we were and how grateful I was that he let me live at his house for a while and hoped that he would be looked after in the after-life. Those few words were more significant than I realized since the master of ceremonies approached me later and told me he was trying his hardest not to cry.
After all words were said and songs were sung they lowered the body into the grave, my host mom, a slew of other people, and I dropped the ceremonious handful of dirt into the grave. I was shocked to see that instead of everyone leaving right then all of the able-bodied men in the community used shovels and filled the grave in with the dirt and then piled rocks on top; it made it seem much more like the community had lost a family member, not just my host family. Then we silently left the graveyard and walked back to the house and cleansed our hands on the way into the front gate to cleanse ourselves from the ceremony. I did not cry at the ceremony or at the reception that followed. I was looking forward to leaving since we were attending a farewell function at the college that I was missing the beginning.
I arrived shortly before they began the celebration. We sang the South African and American National Anthems and then the volunteers stood up front for a singing of "Shosholoza", which is the story of South Africans coming together to support their team in sporting events. A strange thing happened during the song. The whole week I had returned from site I would tell people who offered their condolences that I was fine since I wasn't shocked that he had died. In the middle of the song I started to get teary-eyed and had to sit down. I cried a little after that which I found odd since I never cry at funerals and I didn't think I had bonded with him as much. I'm not sure if I had grown closer to him than I expected or if I had a better understanding of death as an adult.
Certificates of appreciation were being passed out and everybody was happy and enjoying the moment. When my family was announced I solemnly stood up and said that my family was unable to attend since they were at my father's funeral and then sat down. One of the language trainers asked everyone to stand up and we bowed our heads and we honored Jonas with a moment of silence. I appreciated that gesture and I think it was the last bit of closure that I needed.
May he rest in peace.
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