Take Back the Lobola
I grudgingly drove my mom, a retired teacher, to Marishane for the funeral of her priest’s mother. I resented the fact that every time I visited her I would end up being her unsolicited chauffeur. I had to drive her to funerals, weddings, shops and church, or to visit her bevy of friends.
I cannot deny that at times some of these occasions turned out to be interesting and I ended up enjoying myself. Like last month when I drove her to the wedding of her priest’s daughter Makau, who was marrying a gentleman called Mofeti at the Roland Hotel.
Everything was perfect at that wedding, almost too good to be true. I remember the groom telling everyone that he had saved enough money to bring any musician from anywhere in the world to come and sing for them at the wedding.
“My wife said it had to be Luther Vandross. She wanted no one else but him. I tried several tricks to bring him back from the dead and, fortunately, one of them actually worked and he is here straight from heaven to sing for my beautiful wife,” said the groom.
Then the lighting of the venue went off, leaving only the dim glow of the candles. Suddenly Luther appeared on stage, as tall and handsome as we knew him when he was alive. It was a DVD played through a data projector onto a white cloth that was hung across the stage. It was so real, as if he were indeed there. Tears fell from my eyes when his velvet voice sang “Always and Forever.” It was indeed a fairy-tale wedding. The kind of wedding that made most single people wish they could get married.
Why had I never met a man like Mofeti? Why had I never had a wedding like this? I thought to myself as I took the turn-off to Marishane. Driving into the church parking lot I decided not to take part in the funeral proceedings as I had not known the deceased lady and wasn’t that close to the priest’s family. But mainly because I hated the endless speeches.
Everyone said the same things about the deceased. The situation was even worse if the person who’d died was an elderly person. The event swarmed people who all wanted to give speeches. Individuals representing neighbors, the royal house, grandchildren, in-laws, church members, the burial society and friends would narrate endless, pointless stories about the departed. In some cases, even a representative of the undertaker had to give a speech.
I decided to try to locate an old friend of mine, Ivy, who got married to a local guy some years back and relocated to this village. Marishane was really more like an urban township than a village. It was the only village I knew with tarred roads running through it. Unlike in most rural settlements, there were no shacks or lousy housing structures. Most of the houses were large and modern.
After driving around for a few minutes, a young boy at a four-way stop next to a dusty soccer field directed me to Ivy’s place. I could not believe the house she lived in. It was a mansion with a yard that could have been two hectares wide, surrounded by high white walls. The house was painted lime green. On the one side, next to the pool, there was an entertainment area with a thatched roof and glass walls. Ivy said it was the part of the house that belonged to her husband. He had designed and furnished it himself. Inside there was a bar, lounge, study and bathroom. Animal sculptures and prints dominated the interior.
Ivy was very pleased to see me, even though this was just a brief visit.
“My old friend!” she cried.
At noon, while we were still enjoying our catch-up session, my mother sent me a “Please Call Me” message. I knew this meant that the funeral was over and it was time to collect her.
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