Turning Table

Part 165

*** The Crypt and The Ghost Lady ***

🌹LETHUKUTHULA🌹

I refused to visit my father's grave after his funeral, I didn't see the point of it, it wasn't as if I could see him, talk to him, hug or better yet strangle him. I believed that there was nothing for me there inside that cold sandy crypt, but that wasn't true because his death took a tall on me.

For nearly 14 months, I used work to escape my reality, I was not close to the man, but I acknowledge that he was the man who seeded me to life, but how do you grieve for a man who was never there, my grief was questioned because of the anger I carried for him.

I kidded myself into thinking I had processed my grief. I could finally talk about him fondly and share amusing anecdotes rather than tearing up, so I figured I'd put down some flowers and say hello to a wall, maybe try and get closure out of the experience, but I didn't count on the ferocity of my grief.

I was already sobbing as my car pulled up outside the complex of crypts that I had only seen once before.

The walk to his grave was the longest walk I have ever taken not physically but emotionally my feet struggled to take steps to him, as I finally stood before him, I swallowed as I look at his grave, his grave was a physical manifestation of my pain, but I didn't realize it until I stood before the red sand mound, He was really gone. I would never get another disapproving look he used to give me or better yet get a chance to mend the drift we had, the distance I created.

I smiled to myself, but I felt my tears doubled over my fake smile,

This wasn't just an ugly cry-face, it was a full-body experience. You see it in toddlers as they're about to have a tantrum, the kind of cry that starts in the pit of their stomach and causes them to stop breathing for one second, two seconds, three seconds before that tiny little body unleashes an unholy sound, you'd never dreamed possible. Unlike adults, children haven't learnt to feel ashamed of their feelings, so they let it all out, selfishly and un-self-consciously.

This was my first time crying for him as I was self-conscious at his funeral. I had to be strong for Mbali when she delivers the eulogy, I was forced by mother to thank the guests for coming and host the wake. I had responsibilities. I had to keep it together. I had no time to cry or grieve.

Nobody wanted to see me lose it, least of all me. I really did not know how to grieve for him or just grieve in general. Nobody prepares you for such situations for me it was all about attending the funeral, silent and sombre, a hand on the arm to comfort someone as tears slide down their face but I for one, don't know how to sit in the rawness of their pain. The space where tears aren't enough, when only screams and cries and wails can express the depth of their sorrow, is ugly and uncomfortable and embarrassing for those who witness it and those who feel it.

This time, there was no one else's feelings to worry about. It was just me facing my loss. Never mind that I was a grown ass women who once had a career to kill for a leaving, before my father grave I was just the kid that is so sad that I never got the chance to know my father, to see what Mbali and my mother saw in him. Does it ever matter how old you are when you lose a parent?

I didn't just cry, I howled. A deep, dark, guttural sound synonymous with death. You instinctively know it as soon as you hear it, nothing else could cause such pain. It was loud and echoed among the walls of the other newly erected crypts, some with blank marble faces that had been bought in preparation and others carved with the names of loved ones that are just as sorely missed.

The emotions that I tried to push down had finally spilled over and I was powerless to do anything except let them flow. Sitting down in front of Mntungwa grave and tucking flowers into the verse next to the candle holder, I finally understood the purpose of a grave site. It's not for them, it's for us. This intimate gesture is the closest I'm ever going to get to giving him a hug.
And although my realization brings on another wave of sobs, there's also a hint of a smile. Because my father was a lot of things, but at the end of the day he was father.