The funeral

Part One – The House Without a Father

1. The Funeral

The sun burned mercilessly on the day we buried Baba. The graveyard shimmered with heat, but I shivered all the same. I clung to my mother’s dress, feeling her trembling hand through the thin fabric.

6. Mathapelo’s Fire

Mathapelo was sixteen when Baba died, and grief sharpened her edges. She rebelled, staying out late, snapping at Abby, refusing to bow to control.

When an older man showered her with gifts, she convinced herself it was freedom. But gifts turned to chains, and freedom became a cage with invisible bars. Every slap and apology only made her promise herself: she would not remain a prisoner forever.

Around us, the family stood in brittle silence. Abby, the eldest, looked like stone — jaw clenched, fists tight, holding in the entire world. Aubrey’s restless eyes darted to the road. Tshepo bit his lip until blood stained his teeth. Mathapelo stood tall, arms crossed, daring the earth to give Baba back.

I wept silently.

When the coffin was lowered, whispers began — first low, then louder, circling like vultures. Baba’s brothers stepped forward, speaking of the house, the land, the money.

“Our will will be discussed,” my uncle announced.

Mother gripped my hand tighter.

I understood then — the real battle had just begun.

2. The Pillar

In the weeks that followed, the house no longer felt like home. Baba’s family arrived uninvited, demanding their share. The will, read by a weary lawyer, was simple: everything belonged to my mother.

The uproar was immediate. “She cannot raise boys without a man in the house!” they spat.

Mother said nothing, sitting with hands folded, her face carved from stone.

When the shouting grew too loud, Abby stepped forward. “Enough. My father chose my mother. And we stand with her.”

That night, I found her in the kitchen, whispering prayers. She would relocate us soon, seeking peace away from the in-laws.

3. Abby’s Burden

At twenty-four, Abby became a father without choosing it. Everywhere he went, people looked at him as though responsibility had been sewn into his skin. Neighbors called him “the man of the house.” Relatives leaned on him for decisions. Even his siblings glanced at him whenever mother seemed too tired.

He worked odd jobs, carrying bricks at construction sites, sometimes vanishing for days chasing promises of pay that rarely came.

When he finally married, it was not for love. Lindiwe, practical and strict, made it clear she had not married his siblings along with him. Arguments erupted, whispered at first, then shouted. Abby carried those cracks like new scars.

4. Aubrey’s Escape

If Abby carried the family like a yoke across his shoulders, Aubrey wore his grief like a chain he was desperate to break. He was twenty-one, restless, and reckless. He disappeared for nights, drinking with friends, chasing the thrill of forgetting.

“I’m getting married,” he announced one night, shocking the family.

“To who?” Abby snapped.

“She loves me,” he said. “And she will take me away from this house.”

But marriage was not the escape he imagined. Arguments turned into bruises. He became both a victim and a perpetrator, trapped in a cycle of pain.

5. Tshepo’s Questions

Tshepo, neither eldest nor youngest, lived in the shadows of his brothers’ choices, yet felt their consequences. At nineteen, he dreamed of building a better life.

But dreams don’t pay rent. He worked odd jobs, trying to bring some security to the family. His love for Naledi, bright and ambitious, withered under the weight of bills and poverty. When she left him for a wealthier man, his heartbreak came quietly, like a slow poison.

Neighbors whispered. Siblings exchanged worried glances. I watched from the window, realizing abuse does not always arrive as strangers — sometimes it hides where you think you are safe.

10. Tshepo’s Hustle

Tshepo worked three jobs and still had nothing to show. Naledi left him for a wealthier man. He spiraled into debt, desperate, but refused to give up hope.

11. Mathapelo’s Chains

Mathapelo’s chains tightened. The older man controlled her, hid her from friends, and punished her. Every bruise fueled her promise: she would escape.

12. Mother’s Sacrifice

Mother stretched every coin, cooked with empty cupboards, and prayed nightly. Her body grew frailer, but she never collapsed. Strength has a price, and the debt was coming due.

13. Gail’s Burden

At fifteen, I carried the secrets of the family. I knew of Abby’s failing marriage, Aubrey’s bruises, Tshepo’s debts, and Mathapelo’s controlling lover. My silence became armor — but a voice was forming inside me.

14. Abby’s Collapse

Abby’s marriage shattered under responsibility. Lindiwe left one rainy night, leaving only a note. Abby realized love alone could not save what had already broken.

15. Aubrey’s Violence

Aubrey’s home became a battlefield. He left one night, walked the streets, haunted by rage and guilt. Zinhle had gone, and silence filled the house he had once thought was home.

16. Tshepo’s Betrayal

Tshepo’s debts escalated. Landlord knocked. Naledi had left. The house they fought for teetered on the edge, and despair grew sharper by the day.

17. Mathapelo’s Escape

Mathapelo fled her abuser. She slept in hostels, worked odd jobs, slowly reclaiming herself. But freedom had a cost — bruises, sleepless nights, and the ache of being untethered from her family.

18. The Mother’s Tears

Mother wept quietly, hidden from the world. I placed a hand over hers. The pillar was cracking, and the weight of years pressed down on her.

19. Gail’s Voice

I finally spoke, confronting the family. “I’ve been quiet for too long… We are breaking ourselves, and I refuse to be part of it anymore.”

Truth cut through tension. Abby, Aubrey, Mathapelo, and mother listened. The house felt like a home again — not because the past was gone, but because honesty was spoken.

20. A Different Dawn

The days after were not easy, but we faced everything together.

Abby sought counseling. Aubrey worked to rebuild trust. Tshepo found work. Mathapelo trusted herself again. Mother, frailer but strong, laughed with us.

I, who had watched silently for years, finally spoke, reminding them our future could be different.

The sun rose. I breathed deeply, seeing my family — scattered, wounded, but together.

The house had once fallen silent. Now, it sang.