I have been thoroughly traumatised by Cape Flats funerals these past few months.
Too many of my friends and schoolmates are dropping dead — “it’s your age group, dad” — offers my daughter in a reassuring voice. That’s not the problem; it’s how they go.
At a Cape Flats funeral, there is predictable chaos.
Half the speakers are not on the printed programme. There is always an uncle of dubious sobriety who wanted to just “say something short” about the deceased, his drinking and dominoes buddy, in that order.
The soloist is atrocious and in the more happy-clappy churches there is fair warning from the emcee: “Don’t listen to the voice, brothers and sisters, just listen to the words.”
Then why on earth sing? Read the words. Sorry, I’ve been traumatised.
Often a young man or woman shows up at the funeral service claiming that the deceased is his or her father too.
The family is outraged for they see the thinning out of the already thin will.
But the face is that of the dead man. You can’t deny that. He had another child!
The grieving wife knew but now the secret is out; she is now sobbing for the wrong reason.
It’s the only light moment for those observing the consternation up front among the seats reserved for family.
The highly flexible programme drags on and on and on.
At least one ‘tribute’ goes way, way over time and now the emcee panics and makes this announcement: “we need to rus [rush, if you have all your teeth]" because the gates of the cemetery close at 11am on a Saturday.
No chance, the man doing the vote of thanks proceeds to thank everyone from the drunk who gave uncle his last smoke (he died of lung cancer) to the ‘carer’ whom everyone knows cared for ALL uncle’s needs but nobody wanted to make a fus (fuss . . . oh why bother).
It is now three-and-a-half hours and someone brought a cooler bag with food for precisely such moments.
This must be the 12th tribute and that uncle in the coffin must surely be decomposing on this sweltering day.
The preacher in the happy clappy church forgets someone died and preaches to the captive audience about the need to repent.
One actually did an altar call the other day: raise your hand if . . . I have had enough. Rank opportunism.
The tributes give new meaning to the word hypocrisy.
The greatest gangster had a kind heart, throwing R50 and R100 notes out of his slinky car windows in poor communities. Ahhhhhhh.
A man whom everybody knew beat his wife apparently had a soft spot for the fairer sex. Ahhhhh.
A druggie who was in and out of prison always went straight home to hug her kids after a spell in Pollsmoor. Ahhhhh.
On the Cape Flats there is a viewing. For 30 minutes before the coffin is closed and carried to the front, you can actually take a look at the dead auntie’s face for the last time.
If death came by a car accident, that face would have massive layers of makeup to cover-up the cuts but rest assured, there is an auntie from upcountry who will make sure tradition is upheld and plant a sloppy kiss on the dead person’s forehead, instantly shifting the makeup out of place.
Then, after all these bestakels, the emcee announces — I lie not — for anyone who wants to take one more look . . . at this stage I take another blood pressure tablet; we cannot have another death at the same service.
I like how white people die in SA. There is no coffin. The body is disposed of earlier at a crematorium. How cool (actually, hot) is that!
They call a funeral service a memorial. Just living people and many light moments.
Yes, there may be a scattering of the ashes over Camps Bay at some point where the only disaster comes when you stand downwind; it is not unheard of in these parts that when the wind goes the wrong way, family members are known to have swallowed gran.
Talking about swallowing, food is a big thing at a Cape Flats funeral.
After the church service, you jump on the bus(es) to the cemetery and come back for food in the same building.
If you get your timing right, you only go on the bus and come back as a mourner.
I have been among furious munchers who ask with full mouths, “Who died, by the way?”
Who cares when there is soup and vetkoek as well as cake, tea and what the Cape Flats people call mammaries?
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