Remembering Tata-Part 2

"With my family we know where home is, so instead of sending flowers, we're the roses" Kanye West

I don't remember much about Tata passing away. My mind has a convenient way of blocking out things it doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand. Grade one. About a metre tall if that, lugging a suitcase that was bigger than me outside the huge school gates. My father was waiting for me. This was strange. I used take a bus to school and iTransport back everyday. My transport was a kombi that collected kids from the Leondale, Dawn Park and Spruitview areas, and took them to their respective schools in Boksburg. This was the day Tata fell ill. And again, some days later, my father arrived at home unanticipated to pack some clothes; and pick up pots and plates and shit. That's when it sank in. That's how I knew he'd died.

His sickness was incomprehensible to me. It made no sense to see him that way, in and out of hospital, and finally, confined to his bed. The very same bed that contained stories of men that could conquer everything and anything, would be the bed in which he died. His sickness to me, was a fridge full of bottles of Lucozade, medicine and Mageu. Food didn't really go down so well in those final days. I remember, getting into trouble for jumping into bed with him. "Be careful! You could hurt him." They'd shout. It was a silly notion to me. Did they even know who Tata was? Tata was the strongest, bravest man in the world. He wasn't scared of snakes. He wasn't scared of rats and spiders. He wasn't scared of the IFP men who'd run through the streets, red berets and scarves on their heads. Panga's and knives in their hands. When the other families would hide under tables and beds as the men from the hostels ran, shouting in the streets, pulling men out of their houses; we'd sit sipping sweet tea, watching Days of our Lives and Bold and the Beautiful. No sickness could take him from my life, he took down giants in his spare time dammit! and he certainly wouldn't be affected by me climbing into bed with him. I just wanted another story. Maybe if he told me another story about giants that fled, About uZim and all his power, he'd realise that uZim was him. That he wasn't really sick , just maybe a little tired. And the same way that he slayed monsters and demons in my sleep, he would slay this monster. He would get out of bed and be fine, and be Tata again.

We arrived at 1065 Ndlangamadla street in Jabulani. Cars piled all the way down the road. The  four-roomed house was full of people. People everywhere. Everywhere people crying, drinking tea, chopping vegetables, boiling the kettle, praying, Crying, Everywhere people crying. Praying. Cant remember who exactly,but it was  either Ayanda or Nkuli, one of the naughtier, brasher ones who'd ran up to me outside and said: You know Tata's dead right? Of course I knew Tata was dead. Why would these kids think that they'd know something I don't. I saw my mom leaning, face-down against a wall outside his room. She was falling apart. She couldn't even muster enough strength to say hi to me. I couldn't muster up the courage to go up to her. I was uncomfortable; unfamiliar with death, confused by her tears. Mamkhulu gathered all the grandchildren and lead us to the outside room. She told us, matter-of-factly that Tata was dead. That his body was in his bedroom, and that we should go and say our goodbyes. Those are the only words she could eke out before she starting choking on the ball of hurt that had lodged itself her throat. When she started to cry, we all started crying. It was like a domino effect of little children screaming at the top of lungs. Crying for a part of their lives that had now ceased to exist. I did not say my goodbyes.

It was a few days before Christmas,and if Tata was dead who was going to buy us our Christmas clothes. This  was the time of the year when Tata would load us into the back of his white Citi Golf, and take us to Edgars to buy the prettiest dresses, which weren't to be worn until the 25th of December of course, when everyone would descend on the familial home for Christmas lunch. Meats of all kinds, salads for days, and my favourite, Trifle and homemade custard. I'd always offer to carry the custard pot outside so I could eat the crust which had slightly burnt and dried, and stuck to the bottom of the pot. What was I going to wear on Christmas then? Would we have Christmas this year?

We buried him on the 24th of December and it was almost like the Christmas' he'd built and loved. The little children in their Christmas clothes, seated under a tent to shelter them from the blistering hot sun. His family, pulling together despite their pain, in spite of  themselves, celebrating his life. Remembering Tata.