A 7-year old burying his mother

Today was my friend ‘M’e Makhotso’s funeral. It rained most of the previous night. Today at noon it was cold and there were snowflakes in the air. We drove 10 km out to the hillside rondavel in Khanyane where she had lived. About 40 people were gathered in and around a rented tent next to her house. Approximately 10 were relatives, the rest neighbours. We were invited inside the rondavel to see the body. In here we found ‘M’e Makhotso’s remains in her coffin. It was constructed of particle board, with a thin coating of veneer over the horizontal surfaces. The edges of the coffin were unfinished; its how I could tell it was constructed from ½” particle board. The handles and hardware were made of plastic, with a metallic finish. The upper section of the lid was not yet fastened. The coffin was small – not much more than a child-size. Which would accurately describe ‘M’e Makhotso at the time of her death. Surrounding the coffin were a group of bo ‘M’e. It was too dark in the rondavel to really get a good look at ‘M’e Makhotso’s face. I have to admit that was a relief to me. We went back over to the tent and ‘M’e Makhotso’s father conducted the funeral service. (There was no priest available today – their services are in high demand on Saturday’s in Lesotho). He is an interesting man, just one year older than me. Today he had to officiate at the funeral of his 42-year old daughter. Not a task I would wish on anyone. When he was telling me his age I immediately did the math and realized he was just a kid when he became a father. Before they got started I was unexpectedly invited to say a few words about ‘M’e Makhotso and how I came to know her and her family. ‘M’e Mahlompho translated for me. Frankly, most of the people were curious to know how the white guy came to be at the funeral. After her father finished the service, we walked about a kilometre on foot through the muck created by the rain to the grave for the burial. The weather cut us a break as it stopped raining/snowing during this time. Open graves are never pleasant, but when you take away the manicured lawns I am accustomed to, and replace it with weeds and stones, it becomes even more unpleasant. Two men just hopped into the grave, then the rest of the pall bearers passed the coffin into them. The two guys plunked the box unceremoniously onto the bottom of the hole and it made a surprisingly loud and startling noise. The mourners had gathered around the grave, the men in a circle surrounding it, the women, including ‘M’e Makhotso‘s 12-year old daughter Mahlonolo, in a tight group further back, clearly separated from the men. ‘M’e Makhotso’s father said a few more words and then it was time to fill in the grave. It is customary here for the men at a funeral, male relatives first, to each shovel some dirt into the grave. The first few shovelfuls were put in by ‘M’e Makhotso’s eldest son, Khotso. He’s about 20, and was clearly emotional. That was no surprise. What happened next was a little too much to take. Khotso turned and handed the spade to his 7-year old brother, Lebohang. The young boy stepped forward and took the shovel, and with his hands clearly trembling, put a few shovelfuls of the loose earth into the grave where we could clearly hear them hit the top of the coffin. Then he dropped the shovel and quickly moved away from the men and into the group of women in search of his big sister. This same boy two days ago had been crying to the neighbour lady that he wanted his mother. He did not have a clear understanding that his mother was dead. Or what dead really meant. I wonder if tonight, as he crawls under the old blanket and onto the mat on the floor in his rondavel that serves as his bed, if he still does not understand.