They sat in the back seat of the mini bus, clenching each other like two peas in a pod. She had dressed them smartly in identical dresses. The rest of the bus was seated with older women from the community, all dressed very well. They had fancy hats and an array of headwear. On first glance, you would mistake this brightly clad bunch for a party bus. Somewhat the Mamas had quite an atmosphere of bliss. As my husband and I were picked up and welcomed in, the high-pitched lively voices chit chatted all the way.
It was after 6am. We would be driving about half an hour to a neighboring town where he grew up and was going to be buried. This would be my first attendance of a Xhosa funeral, so I knew nothing about the schedule and being African too, I obliviously assumed the culture was closely similar to ours.
I expected to be greeted with wailing and loud mourning as is the norm in some ‘African’ cultures. And at least, this is true of my experiences at some Zambian funerals. But it was quiet. We entered the funeral home where men and women immediately had their designated areas to cluster.
I sheepishly followed Gogo into a room where a group of women sat listening to another woman read from the Bible. The coffin lay at the front of the room close to my seat. At first, it appeared like she was a preacher. But it soon dawned on me that the women were all taking turns to share scripture, and speak about death, the deceased and whatever else they could. This was done by standing up and singing songs before and after each speaker.
I neither knew the songs nor fully understood what all the women were talking about. To say the least, my Xhosa language skills are still very minimal. My mind could only think of what the kids understood by all this. I longed to sit close to them. But someone had given them seats away from Gogo.
Suddenly, a woman who had travelled with me on the bus ushered me to the front of the room. The eyes in the room all fell on me. I searched around the room for the kids, as if to find some unknown courage in gazing onto their innocent faces. When the singing stopped, I walked to the front and shared from Psalm 71. I kindly asked her to translate what I shared, wrecked with nerves at being called upon to speak before these older women of someone I never knew, someone important to ‘our kids’ but whom they never knew. I was thankful for the gesture. I kept it short, encouraging them all to be united in supporting the raising of the two girls who had been left behind.
Up to now, Yonela and Lusanda were fidgeting around in their seats seemingly oblivious that we were at their father’s funeral. All I could think about was how we could at a later stage help them process what had happened. I could only trust that they would get through this well. But still the question of how to walk through it with them bugged me. Sometimes, you meet young adults or grownups who have carried pain for years because they didn’t know how to deal with it properly. Or that no one around them could process things with them. I prayed that our kids would heal from this, that they would be thankful that they had a father, despite not knowing him well. And that they have a chance at life.
Gogo, as we call her, has been their guardian since they were barely 4 and 2. They are now 10 and 8. When we got the news of their fathers’ death, Gogo emotionally narrated to us how she first took the kids in. She spoke of their mother abandoning them with their father while they were still infants. She has never supported them or acknowledged their existence as her children since then. Their mother and father never married and besides being their biological mother, the girls neither know her or about her. After hearing this, it was not a surprise that she was not at their father’s funeral.
A teary eyed Gogo, had also told us of the scar on Yonela’s nose from her flesh being torn as she carried her younger sister through a barbed wire fence on her back in desperate search of food. They were both under five, vulnerable and neglected.
Motherless at infancy, Yonela learnt early and quickly to survive their harsh reality and to parent Lusanda. Their heart wrenching story is unfortunately often a common one here. And yet, something sparkles in their eyes that speaks a hope for every despair of their past. And this keeps the fire burning in us to be their voice and to seek resources on their behalf that will change their circumstances and help transform their lives in view of their cruel predicament.
What seemed like hours later, the body viewing happened and the kids were taken in line along with the adults who bade farewell to their father. Yonela came out crying; she fell into Gogo’s arms and then immediately paced over into my lap. Cornelius, Felix, the two girls and I sat there patiently listening as speaker after speaker spoke. The crowd stood up each time after every speaker and broke into song before the next person spoke. For the next few hours, she lay there as I held her. My heart was sad. Here was ten year old Yonela who neither knew her mother nor her father, and now she was meeting him in a coffin.
It was a bizarre sight. Lusanda sat next to me, trying to wipe her older sister’s tears. She, seemingly unaffected by this event, eating the snacks Gogo had packed for them. They both eventually fell asleep in our arms. Both tired from the long speeches and the scorching heat. I wondered if Lusanda fully understood what was occurring. How could she even connect emotionally because she never really knew the dead man as her father? I prayed that the difficult feelings of being the ‘strangers’ who were helping with the welfare of these kids would escape me. It was rather awkward when their father’s relatives came up to greet the kids and some to take pictures with them. The kids stood so aloof and almost tried to clinch onto us. My heart couldn’t help but hurt that the kids did not know them.
As per tradition, Cornelius led the children in the procession to grab some soil from a passing spade and throw in on top of the lowered coffin in the grave. They both peered at their father’s coffin as the grave was buried. Again I was struck by their innocence, and confused as to whether they interpreted the symbolism of what they had just done. Like two little lambs, they happily hopped away from the crowd with us as the funeral came to an end. I was grateful they had a chance to pay their last respects to their father as well as meet some of their aunts and uncles.
On the drive back home after 4pm that afternoon, I let the views of the mountainous landscape and fresh breeze seep into my soul. I was filled with peace and absolutely glad we came. It didn’t matter now that there had been no flowers on the grave, or even that there was clearly no bond between these children and their father’s family. What mattered was that we came to support Gogo and especially our kids.
Gogo Hester is a selfless woman bursting with love and compassion for these kids. She is their rightful guardian. And our ‘woman of peace’ as we like to refer to her. To know that the kids could experience the assurance that they are not alone, that they are loved in Gogo’s care, and with us they ‘belong’ was enough.
I was extremely humbled to think that I am now the woman married to their ‘Father Cornie’ as all the kids fondly call him. And this exceptional woman we all call ‘Gogo’ (translated as granny but she is actually not at all that old)…is our partner in what we believe are truly God-inspired Dreams for children such as Yonela and Lusanda.
We dream of these gifted singers being disciples of Jesus and becoming spirit led worshippers. We dream of them having access to quality literacy, excelling in education and life. We dream of them having hope and a bright future. We dream of them being brilliant leaders in their community and positively influencing their peers. We dream of them impacting Nations and leaving a mark on their generation. Somewhere in those dreams, for the ones who are fatherless or have absent parents, we must trust that God will enable us and give us the capacity to joyfully pour our lives out in that regard too.
I am learning that Ministry is not necessarily ‘full-time or part-time’ as it is often defined. Ministry is complete obedience, whenever and however God calls. Sometimes He calls us to just experience Him in the mundane tasks of everyday life. He can also ask us to do some daring things to stretch our faith and grow our willingness to obey. Therefore, partial obedience is no obedience. I am thankful that making the choice to support our kids through such an unpredictable situation on a day which is typically our day of rest to teach me such a difficult and uncommon lesson. I am more determined now to do common things uncommonly.
