A Murder
How does one write about a brutal, senseless, heinous, act committed in this small town, when it happened right near where I’d likely been numerous times, before and after, yet had no idea it had occurred? Not that murder is a common thing out here. Upon inquiring they had to think long and hard.
First I hear of it I’m at pennywhistle practice for teens, most living in shacks. The facilitator, also from the village, asks me if I could get permission for her daughters to play a tune at the funeral. What tune, what funeral?
They’d been taught something they felt would be appropriate and wanted to make sure the guy who taught them would be okay with it. And the funeral? A friend, born December 13, 1997, was murdered by her boyfriend, a violent, crazed, crashing blow crushing her skull.
It’s likely obvious I don’t pay much if any attention to the news. I have, recently, taken to reading the local publications as it may uncover something pertinent. I did not see anything about the murder. I’m now led to understand all the news is disseminated through a Facebook page.
The answer to the request was an obvious — yes. Should a problem arise I’d be more than happy to have that conversation. ‘Please would you come and film them’ Yes. Sunday 2 pm (14:00 here) at the local school across the river.
I’m apprehensive. I’m no fan of funerals, and never have been, mine I won’t be too concerned about. I have never attended a funeral for an isiXhosa person, what to wear? I opted for black. Anxious as I see groups, mostly women, making their way down the street. I decide to park, join those, in truth follow as I’d had an image of where they’d likely be and, as is often the case, I was wrong.
If I got any strange looks I don’t recall. Most, if they didn’t smile those disarming smiles, seemed to all but ignore me, why not they don’t know me, the only ones I knew were the family who had asked me to come, affording some comfort. Dress varied widely, some pretty fashionable, huge sunglasses, colors everywhere, now do I stand out even more? The choir ladies seemed to be those with white doeks (kinda like turbans), a bunch of guys in suits upfront VIPs of some sort.
Their spot secured in the lineup after a consult with the MC, we find our way into what looked to me like the assembly hall of the school. Brings back memories. No sooner do I find a spot from which I can capture the girls piping their tribute, does the entire room reverberate with bold, living, sound. It’s not possible to retain any form of stoicism when greeted with an outpouring such as this. Listening to them now as I write this elicits a similar response.
How long will it be, one of the many things I’d concerned myself with — ‘We have to go fast, catchup, we have only 2 hours before they charge us penalties’. I was going to be late for another appointment, all the while thinking to myself why, on an occasion such as this, they had to pay anything for the use of a school building?
The room was overflowing, many outside looking in. The MC pulled no punches, he did apologize but still went into graphic detail about the crime(s), there’d been equally brutal priors, said it had to be done. The first witness on the scene gave his account thankfully, it was in isiXhosa. How groups handle something such as this must vary, hopefully, I don’t ever get to compare. Friends, my own children’s age, having to be coaxed to stand on stage for a period.
There’s some activity around besides the singing, thought to say wailing but they didn’t appear to be, Dad had motioned to the girls to fight their way through the crowd that had spent the majority of its time moving in the aisles, singing, holding signs with the image of the victim.
Singing continues, they’re now, dad and one daughter singing, on the stage. Camera at the ready, truth be told I’d taken a number of pics once I saw someone else doing it so assumed it would be okay, Mr. MC decides that in lieu of letting the program continue indoors, we should all take our chairs, move the affair outside, wouldn’t want the others to miss out.
The chairs are plastic, lightweight, and stackable. Many here are what would clinically be described as obese. I suffer from misophonia, the constant grinding of the chairs on the concrete was driving me crazy. I have trouble hearing at times, this made it impossible. When I was able to hear, he did have a mic, he was riling up the crowd asking them what they would do to the perpetrator should he set foot in there, he called him all sorts of names.
I couldn’t help but think, only a mentally disturbed person would be capable of such an act. He also talked about domestic violence telling the men who were standing separated from the pack, if someone yells at them it doesn’t mean they are required to react physically. There were others similar. Whether he read my mind, standing way to the side I’d noticed this crevasse, or just was good at his job, he persuaded them to join.
Finally, he gave the stage to Dad and the girls who began piping out their rehearsed tribute. What their relationship was to the deceased I’ve yet to uncover. Nearing the end, the eldest could no longer hold back her tears, as I’m attempting to do at this moment. I was able to get it on ‘film’.
It was nearing 4 pm with little sign of things slowing, penalties be damned. When relocated outside it was easier to see all the VIPS, elderly men in suits everyone. Who are they, church elders, and community leaders?
There are many projects needing to be focused on to try to enrich the lives of young and old alike. It will be important to know, and understand, what the community thinks is best for it.
