The church smelled like dust, lilies, and old wood —a suffocating mix that that stuck to the back of my throat and made my stomach churn. The kind of scent that told you that a place held too many stories, sorrows, and prayers. And now it was holding Zweli's.
The air was stiff with silence. The kind of silence that clung and lingered.
Families and friends shifted quietly in their seats, most people holding tissues in their hands, kids from school wearing tight black dresses that had been tucked away for years. The whispers died down the moment the pastor stepped up, but I could still feel their eyes on me. Like they wanted me to know that they blamed me for the pain that lingered in the church, and the soft sobs of Zweli's family members.
I sat alone, three rows from the back. I didn't want to come but I figured it would just prove them right. Plus, I had to show my support— we lost our classmate and star soccer player.
My hands gripped each other tightly in my lap. I could feel the pulse in my thumb, strong and anxious. My nails bit into the skin of my palm. There was a dull throb behind my temples, but I didn't dare take my eyes off the casket. I kept my eyes on the smooth, polished wood that sat in the centre like the world revolved around it now.
Zweli's mother looked like she hadn't slept since the incident happened. Her makeup was flawless but something in her eyes gave it away. She sat stiffly next to Zweli's dad, who stared straight ahead like he was afraid of looking at his wife. His wife of twenty-five years, I heard the pastor mention. Zweli's parents were the kind of parents you tried to model. They met in college, dated a year later, got married four years later then started having kids three years later. Their first kid, Zanele was doing her final year in Law, following in her father's footsteps. They waited four years before they had a second child, the one they named Zweli. Zweli was a soccer player, a Math whizz, and the only boy our age I knew that had never had a drop of alcohol, ever. Girls swooned over him. I did not blame them, he was quite the catch and came from money. Zweli had a little brother, Vusi, who would be turning thirteen soon. And who I realised had not stopped crying since he walked into the church, wearing his black suit that matched his black bow tie. I felt for him the most. Him and Zweli were the best of friends, I used to see them playing soccer at the park or running together. He looked exactly like Zweli, as though Zweli was his dad instead.
Kylie was there too, sitting two rows from the family. Of course she was, she had gotten close to them over the course of their relationship.
The pastor began to speak. Something about light, peace and comfort. He went on to talk about how sweet Zweli was. You know, the extra lies we tell at funerals. He was many things, a great student, a good sportsman, loud, caring, respectful—to the adults at least. But sweet? Zweli was anything but sweet. The pastor knew it too, we all did.
Friends went up and spoke, praised him, cried, mentioned how much they would miss him. Kylie was asked to speak too, and I could not imagine how hard that was. She had to say good things about a boy that broke her heart over and over. She broke down and had to get off the stage before she finished yet another speech filled with lies.
Next, a video slideshow played— baby photos, soccer team pictures, birthday parties. The room was filled with soft sniffles, and Vusi whined out loud.
When the service was over, people stood up to leave, hushed and respectful, the casket leading them. I remained frozen in my seat, my legs wouldn't move.
"Shortcake?" My heart smiled almost immediately, before I even turned, I knew who the voice belonged to. He didn't know Zweli, what was he doing there?
"Hi. What are you doing here?" I asked in a whisper, my legs making their way towards him. He held my hand and directed me outside, saying I could ride with him to the graveyard.
