My grandmother, when recounting the story, says at around 3 am Papa insisted on driving us to the hospital. As soon as Papa was preparing to take me, car keys in hand, a knock came from the living room door. I stopped crying. When he answered, he found two nurses in their white uniform standing solemn faced. He jokingly asked the nurses if they had heard my crying all the way from the hospital but received a blank look in reply. They were there to tell Papa that my great-grandfather, his father, had passed away. 

In Setswana tradition, babies sense these things. In the story, I knew.

4. The Day: Part II

Papa had spent the entire night wheezing and coughing. Day came, and I left the house, leaving my little sister in charge of my daughter, as I went to fetch items such as lemons, ginger and cough syrup.

In my absence, my sister says my daughter had started crying. She cried so hard my sister was scared something was wrong with my baby. Meanwhile, it is said my grandfather’s exit from this world was silent. He waited to be alone in his room, while my mother carried his breakfast dishes back to the kitchen where she took the insistent crying three-month-old from my sister. As my mother rocked her granddaughter, there was an indescribable stillness in the house; only the sounds of a wailing baby could be heard. Perhaps my daughter was bidding her great grandfather goodbye. 

5. How To Grieve Quietly 

My aunt told me to grieve quietly. That I should cry when no-one saw. She told me to hide the grief. 

But.

How do you hide your pain? In your pocket? At the back of the house? In a box under your bed? Do you steal moments between preparing for the funeral to go cuddle with your grief? What do you say when you leave it? Does it wait for you to come back to it?

6. The Burial

The entire week leading to the burial felt unreal. I was moving in a grey space of confusion and denial. It felt as if I was motionless, watching everything happen, even as I moved.

I drafted Papa’s funeral program – “Because you are a writer,” my mother said. Typing away on my laptop while my uncle stood next to me telling me dates: of when Papa fled to Botswana, when he married mama. As his history rushed towards me, my grief stood back. 

I wanted to be present in every activity, no matter how small. I wanted to help with the cooking, although I had no experience using big cast iron pots on the open fire. I wanted to go pick his casket with my mother and my uncle. I also wanted to sit with the old men and hear stories about Papa, although it wasn’t tradition for me to go sit ko lekgotlaneng. I wanted to stay in Papa’s bedroom and reminisce alone. I wanted to pick his final outfit. I wanted to take his suit to the dry cleaners. I wanted to shine his shoes one last time.