Ke ne ka ya ko motlhaba ko lewatle
I attended a memorial service for a child from Shakawe Senior on Friday.
I entered the large dining hall, which was decorated with a banner and pictures of the child. He was in form five. I had come into his class in the beginning of the year.
In true Botswanan fashion, the ceremony started with a prayer and a hymn, performed by Scripture Union (Shakawe Senior’s gospel choir). They sang in call and response, as one singer started a verse and the other singers’ harmonies soon followed. Other people joined in as well, singing the words quietly. While I knew very few of the Setswana words, Modimo (God) was a constant throughout the song. But, the religious elements did not seem out of place in the ceremony. In such a spiritual community, I think it is natural to become closer to God after a death.
The school head took her place at the podium for introductions. She started her speech by greeting everyone and acknowledging the other two lives lost that year (one graduate and one other in form five). But as she continued her speech, she became overcome and suddenly covered her face with her hands. She let out an intense cry that echoed throughout the room. These children were a part of her heart, a part of her community. She cried as if the boy was her own child, and perhaps in some ways, he felt like one. Some of my colleagues ushered the school head off of the stage, and as they did so, one of the teachers sang a line of song. Soon, the entire room was filling with a sea of voices. The voices of school staff, family members, and students surrounded the school head in her grief, embracing her and supporting her.
The hymns were often repetitive, taking similar melodies. But there was something about this form of gospel that differed from anything in the United States, some kind of dissonance that filled the chords. Perhaps it was the tonal quality of Setswana that made it different. Or perhaps it was that Black American gospel music has such a specific history of struggle and pain which makes the music have such a singular style.
Nevertheless, as the hymns rang through the air during each transition between speakers, there was a stark feeling of being engulfed in a community, spiritual or otherwise. As the friends of the child came up to the podium, they spoke of how he was so focused on school and “never cared about girls.”
It is so hard to think about death when there is so much life around me: the energy and spirit of the people around me, the plants and animals which surround me, the peace that I have felt while I’ve been here.
It’s so wild. Just before the ceremony, I was worried about having no running water, and meanwhile, a family mourned their son, their young child. It does put things into perspective, I think.
Rest in peace, Therisano.
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A collection of sensory images and feelings from the past month:
the image of a double rainbow in the sky as I took the bus to Maun
the tumble of my stomach during takeoff and landing
the view of Table Mountain rising above Cape Town
the smell of the ocean
the feeling of possibility when traveling
the lights of the city at night
the relief of a long, hot shower
the chaotic feeling of walking through the V&A Waterfront
the feeling of the ocean breeze blowing my hair on a boat
the bubbling of champagne in plastic flutes
the taste of fresh oysters and mussels
dancing to amaas a boat rocks back and forth
sipping on mojitos
the sight of gorgeous colorful houses in Bo Kaap
the taste of wine, cheese, and chocolate
listening to corny jokes from a tour guide
watching someone use a saber to open a champagne bottle
the uncanny feeling of seeing colonial architecture everywhere in South Africa
the friendly conversation between tourists in the bliss of travel
sprawling views of vineyards in the countryside
the buzzing energy when hiking
the soreness after hiking
the feeling of dread when looking over the edge of a steep cliff
the nauseating smell of penguins
breathing in the clean, scented air at Kirstenbosch gardens
the existential reckoning of seeing plants that are as old as dinosaurs
hummingbirds flying from plant to plant
walking across the border from South Africa to Botswana
drinking a chalky matcha latte
hate-watching movies with friends
eating samosas, lo mein, and Nando’s
being surrounded by monkeys while drinking tea
sitting idly in O.R. Tambo airport
walking around a new city at night with friends
the taste of a sugary donut
the exhaustion of a long drive
the sight of the sea encroaching on desert dunes in Walvis Bay
the nauseating smell of seals
watching flamingos moving their legs in strange ways
the exhilaration of 4x4 drives over sand dunes
the feeling of hot sand under my feet
getting heat exhaustion
walking across the border from South Africa to Botswana (again)
the sound of Beyonce filling a car
the excitement of going out with friends and strangers
the shock of jumping into a cold pool
the comforting familiarity of Maun
the freeing feeling of checking into a hotel alone
pulling Bream fish bones from my teeth
stepping into a mokoro
the grunts and bellows of hippos
the eerie silence on the river
the sounds of local birds
the pleasant conversation with my guide as he pushed us through the water
seeing lily pads in various stages of bloom
walking through the bush
being stared at by a giraffe
eating a sandwich by the riverbank
getting my first sighting of an elephant as I was leaving the mokoro site
driving for five hours (on the opposite side of the road)
steering abruptly around potholes
getting pulled over for speeding outside of Gumare
eating chocolate with my coworkers
meeting some of my students’ families
playing with my friend’s two-year-old
the panic of dropping and cracking my samsung
perusing my students’ writing and correcting the word belief so that it is believe
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I am half-way through my journey here. I have visited four new countries (eight if you count the airports). I have made friends who I am already dreading leaving. I have taught my students about conjunctions, gerunds, and sentence structure. I have marked enough compositions to fill a room. I am about to start a drama and spoken word club in the school. And yet, I feel like I have not done enough.
I have always been a perfectionist, but I am especially one when it comes to jobs or hobbies where I can make an impact on people’s lives. When doing something for the purpose of service, it often feels like little progress is being made and that I need to work harder.
But maybe, just maybe, I should just enjoy my time that I have left. It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, after all. And maybe, just maybe, I will learn something from the Batswana about letting go of my ideas of perfection.
