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The skies darken as I twist through the dirt roads of Khayelitsha Site B. It is already starting to rain. When I get close I pull out my cell phone and push the memory button with Nomathamsanqa’s name on it. I met her for the first time a year ago when she appeared on my doorstep during a heavy rain storm wearing a bright red turban and an enormous Xhosa fabric dress. There was no question then that she would stay and no question that she would be an important part of my life.
Normally when I visit here small sentinels watch for my car and run through the warren of shacks to warn Noma of my approach. Miniature sentinels bringing messages to the Queen. But there are no sentinels today. I phone as instructed and a few minutes later I see her distinctive figure coming towards me through the crowd that has gathered in the street.
A yellow and white awning has been stretched over the Shebeen making an outdoor chamber big enough to house four rows of plastic chairs and the coffin. Taking my hand Nomathamsanqa leads me into the shelter. I am conscious of the fact that I am the only white person here and for several minutes am not sure how to act. Noma says nothing and I stay by her side but in a few minutes my section rises to sing and I realise it is sort of the choir.
I get out my camera to explain my presence but hesistate, I feel painfully American, unsure of the social codes and not wishing to offend. But I realise quickly that I am the only person here having an issue. Xhosa people have no trouble expressing their emotions and no shame about being photographed doing so.
The first speaker is a handsome man of about fifty with a thin moustache. He wears a black suit with wide lapels and a black tie with white church insignia. Holding his watch in one hand he speaks quickly, navigating the clicks and dips of Xhosa with an ease I envy. I don’t know what he’s saying but he speaks with such vehemence that I imagine he is a close family friend. Camera raised I slide to the front and sit at his feet as he addresses the crowd. From this position I am shooting directly up at him but my presence only seems to increase his fervor. He waves his arms wildly, pacing and shouting, covering me with a fine spray of spit and perspiration.
The boy in the coffin was 17, killed in a car crash on the way to a football match. On either side of the coffin, teammates with downturned faces stand, arms crossed over uniformed chests. I photograph a river of black rainwater under the coffin, football boots with high white socks on either side.
An older man speaks now. His hair is greying and he wears a long black mourning coat. He begins softly, crying a little but his voice builds till he is shouting hoarsely, waving his fist at the audience. I imagine he is railing against the injustice of such a futile death.
Outside the rain is falling in a thin veil. My camera catches a glimpse of my housekeepers’ son standing under a red umbrella. The boy in the coffin was one of his best friends. His bends his head and wipes his eyes as my camera translates him into tones of grey.
The next speaker is a woman in a dark floral dress and an enormous white, Sunday Church hat that looks like a cake. Later I learn she is the Preacher’s wife but again the strength of her feeling makes me think she is a relative.
The boy’s family sits in another section of the tent. His mother is large and immobile in black also with a new hat. She is flanked by other female relatives in Sunday clothes and the boys little sister, all in white. The boy’s father is spread across two seats on the other side of the tent and I wonder if he’s drunk or overcome as his head nods to his chest.
After the service the coffin is wheeled out under the clearing sky and slid into a purpose-built trailer made of glass. Printed pictures of the boy’s face are taped to the windows. Two long rows of teenagers in football uniforms lead the procession to an industrial building 2km away. We follow slowly in cars without speaking and park on the dusty shoulder next to barbed wire-topped walls.
The large, open, brick structure of the hall is already packed when we arrive but Noma leads us through the gaping crowd and we sit in the third row. Turning my head I take in the sea of bobbing black faces behind me. The coffin has been positioned on the right side of a small stage with six plastic chairs and a small pile of flowered wreaths. The chairs are soon occupied by those who spoke at the funeral and three others. One of the men has a smooth face and intense black eyes that I imagine have special powers. Noma tells me he is the head of the church. Later he grips my hand and looks deep into my soul.
When the crowd settles speakers come from the audience one at a time to address the clergy and the audience. This time the speaches are less practiced and more frequently interrupted by tears. I imagine those who speak are telling about the last time they saw the boy alive. When one of the young men in football uniforms takes the stage I imagine him telling the story of how the boy died by the roadside. Again I don’t understand the words but I feel the emotion all the same and I notice heavy drops of water filling my camera’s viewfinder.
After the speaches there is quiet and then suddenly music. Noma tells me that the spirit is being welcomed into the afterlife. The figures on stage stand and rock to the music. One man pounds the floor with a large staff as he dances. An enormous lady in a flowered dress and giant sunglasses comes forward, waving her arms, her expansive form taken with the spirit of the music. The whole room is pulsing with heavenly singing. The clergy dance out the door and the crowd follows.
Suddenly silent, we stand blinking in the sunlight as the coffin is re-loaded into its purpose built trailer.
Back in my car I wipe my face and turn onto the highway. In front of me six young men on the back of a bakkie smile and wave. I recognise the handsome face of my housekeeper’s son and I pull out my camera and shoot a last picture of him as I drive away.