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My oldest sister leaving this realm 2 weeks ahead of my wedding was certainly not on my bingo card…for this life, never mind this year. This has been a long week.
For the first time yesterday I said it without crying. Well…to be honest, I whispered it to myself after Mo left for work in the morning. “My sister passed away on the weekend”. It still feels like a gut punch. A very strange string of words to utter. I am shattered. Even while writing this little piece, I am really struggling to put things directly related to her in past tense. I can ‘easily’ talk through how I’ve woken up in tears every day since Sunday morning, how I’ve visited our WhatsApp chat in as many days trying to see whether I communicated my love for her enough or how seeing her smile in pictures has felt like a warm embrace. Talking about my experience since the weekend in past tense is fine…talking about her existence in past tense feels so wrong. I described it to a friend as feeling like I’m validating her death; which I know sounds dramatic and strange given that her death is factual but damn, saying it sounds so wrong. I’ve decided to bite the bullet for this piece as a first step out of the denial stage in the 5 stages of grief, so I will correctly write in the past tense and see how it goes.
My upbringing was good; I have a mother who worked very hard to provide for me and the rest of our household in my formative years. My mother has 3 kids, 2 from her previous marriage and me. I’m her youngest and the only one she shared with my father. My sister, Neo, is my mom’s oldest and she really stepped up when my mom lost her business in 2007. From my perspective as a child, single motherhood didn’t seem all too hard for my mother while she was working. She seemed to handle the early mornings and late nights with a confidence and commitment that couldn’t be shaken but when she lost the lease to her stores, it became glaringly obvious that doing it all by herself was strenuous.
My father was not a part of my life growing up. I have no living memory of him and pretty much only know that he existed because I exist. He did not raise me, nor did he contribute financially or otherwise to my upbringing. He passed away in August 2014 and I travelled to Newcastle with my mom to attend his funeral, which was…an experience. I hardly experienced denial with his passing; I zoomed past that straight to anger. I don’t think I’ve uttered this to anyone in this way but I kept on thinking “how dare he die on me after leaving me as a kid? We were supposed to reconcile and I was supposed to show him how great I turned out without him”. Ooof…I know, that’s kinda hectic.
Anyway, this weekend I return to Newcastle to lay my sister to rest. Mantombi Grace Magasela, was my father’s oldest daughter and my oldest sibling. She was 18 years my senior. Manto was incredibly loving…God, she had a heart on her. She always approached me with so much warmth and unquestionable affection. She loved me, my mom, her kids and their kids and was never shy expressing it. And we love her endlessly. So, we’re all kind of lost right now. It is a big loss, dizzying, in fact.
As a proper Zulu women, I’m sure she could bite your head off if she really wanted to but to me, she didn’t have much of a mean streak. She was a lover of truth, of family and of fun and seemed far more preoccupied with love than anything else. So, her legacy to me is a really positive one. She loved her children deeply. She found love and partnership. She fought for her life. She supported her family. Her legacy is love. Neo said “love personified”.
It was also with love that she stood up at our father’s funeral and expressed disappointment at the relationship they shared. That despite being present in her life, he expressed limited interest or care in raising her because as a girl child she would marry his surname and his legacy away. This stunned a few people at the funeral, including me, to be honest. Although, I lived with a lot of resentment towards my father while he was alive, I also lived with a lot of envy towards my siblings from his side for having a father’s love. In a way that only a prepubescent child and teenager could romanticise a stranger, I had imaginings that my father was probably a good father to the children he did raise. I had fantasised that he had redeemable qualities for what he lacked in dedication towards raising or getting to know me. My mother did not badmouth him or even speak about him at all really, so I only had my imagination to work with.
But by the time Manto took the opportunity to speak up in 2014, I was 20 years old, with a mind that had seen what the world and the patriarchy accept from men and a heart that bounced between holding out for a reconciliation or continuing a fatherless existence. An existence that, honestly, might have been better off because I was fatherless.
Manto was supposed to speak at my bridal shower this weekend. She will not. She will not speak again and that sucks.
Manto was supposed to say my sthakazelo (clan names) next week Saturday. She will not. She will not utter my name again and that sucks.
Manto was supposed to be gifted and honoured at my Membeso next week Saturday. She will be, in absentia. She will be with us in spirit and that is a joy.
I bring up my father in this piece because Mantombi was my only connection to the Nkabinde bloodline. After Mo cradled me in his arms and delivered my mom’s message about my sister’s passing last weekend, I, understandably, short-circuited. There was nothing left for me to do that day. The feeling was indescribably heart wrenching. The only person who has been my bridge to the name I carry is now gone. I feel lost. More lost than ever before. Carrying a name that holds little to no deep connections to its origins can do that to someone. Not a unique story, South Africa is littered with children of the lost fathers. Manto’s pasing immediately left me feeling like the bridge to my heritage had collapsed. And that sucks.
It will be interesting navigating the world with this added complexity to my paternal family experience. I guess that’s the one benefit of marrying away the name. In a way, I get start a new chapter and bring meaning to a name of my own choosing with a man and a family that have shown me a lot of love and affection. My wedding continues next weekend. One less guest…but certainly, a world of love and support that has been flowing to me even before Manto left us.
My sister, you will be sorely missed. The love you brought into every room, every hug, every call and every family gathering will remain your legacy. Faith is no easy task… I choose to believe that you will rest peacefully. That you have returned to your Maker. That this weekend’ s send off will work seamlessly. Your life and heart will be celebrated. Your wishes and spirit will be honoured. And you will remain forever lodged in our best memories. Loving you was easy. Leaving you will hurt. But I accept. It is time for you to rest.
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Thank you for taking the time to read/ listen to this blog.
Amazing and so accurate, I would say “we are grateful to have experienced Her unwavering, unconditional Love “
Thank you Vee❤️❤️
Not to be biased but this is so beautiful Zamafuya. My deepest condolences to you and your family may God continue to bless you and give you strength in this time ❤️. I love you
Thank you❤️❤️
This was such a moving and powerful tribute, Zama. I’m so sorry for your loss. Sending you strength and love as you navigate both grief and joy in this season.
Thank you❤️❤️
This is truly beautiful, Zama. Thank you for sharing this with us and I hope it brings you a little bit of healing. ❤️
Thank you❤️❤️
This is truly healing
Thank you❤️❤️