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The Sacred Night Vigil

Last Friday evening I met up with my friend, Zwe, in our township as we had discussed on the phone earlier. We wanted to drive together to a night vigil of Velile Masinga, a guy we grew up with in the township. We delayed it, as it is customary, until it was about 9 pm. We do this so that we are not the very first ones to arrive, and also, to have the stamina for the long evening ahead. There were unusually many cars parked on the side of the road opposite Velile’s house. We found it difficult to find proper parking but managed to squeeze in. We walked up on a foot path and went inside a well-lit white tent planted on the Masinga’s front yard. There were a fewer mourners than I had expected in the tent but all were in a sombre mood. Some mourners were inside the house next to the vanished coffin which looked like expensive vintage furniture. All of them were quietly listening at a well-known, near gay, but born-again Christian, Sylvester Sithole. He was testifying while standing at the main door entrance. I guess being gay is not permitted in his church, but if you ever saw him walk, and how he would swings his arms, you would understand why I say near gay. He was positioned such a way that people inside the house and outside at the tent could hear him well when he spoke. His testimony was passionate, loud and spirit filled. When I eventually become attentive to him he was talking about how underprepared we are about the requirements we need to accomplish to get to heaven. He spoke candidly on varying topics, including women’s fake hair piece, women not finding marriage because they haven’t let Jesus in their lives and weak Christians who fail to preach the word as mandated by the ‘book’. Silvester was a regular at township night vigils. As expected with him, all topics had nothing to do with the dead body of our friend laying horizontal inside the house. After a good thirty minutes, he concluded with a popular chorus. We joined in with our forced questionable baritones..

"Woza ku Jesu, nom’ umanikiniki, ungesabi ukuzinikela….”

After Sylvester, another born-again Christian stood up and preached. He was fattish. Tenderpreneur like fattish. He had a large belly that has undoubtedly seen a lot of Shisanyamas and pap. He was wearing and expensive looking purple shirt, with buttons barely restraining his belly. He also wore expensive looking pointy maroon shoes. Judging how he was dressed, he could fit right in DJ Tira’s party, possibly drinking expensive whiskey.  I gathered as he spoke that he was an important person in his church. He spoke with an authoritative voice. Even at that time of the night, you could see sweat pouring down his forehead. He was shouting “Jizas!” and pointing at us. He quoted the scripture time-to-time. All the while he was preaching, more mourners from the community came through to the tent. Neighbours, young and old were streaming in. We eventually had a sizable crowd which responded with a dignified "Hhalleluja!", "Jizas" and "Amen!" when required to.

After he had finished, another born-again Christian stood up to give a word. But at that time, there were rowdy mourners at the back of us inside the tent. They sounded unashamedly drunk - but were somewhat entertaining with their sporadic outbursts. For example, the guy testifying would say "Jesus arrived to me when I was alone and feeling unwanted and he comforted me". They would shout comments, "Hawu madoda you were lonely shame. Ungaqonyiwe shame.  Isishimane shame." (struggles to get a girlfriend, fears girls). One guy, visibly drunk, wore a dignified jacket that made him look as a regular church goer.  He kept interrupting with choruses in the middle of a testimony of people on stage in a delightful tenor - disturbing the flow of a testimony. While doing this, he was entertaining because he had an amazing voice - think Pavarotti. I even started thinking Gareth Cliff or Unathi would say Yes in the Idols competition. We all know Randal never says Yes. Zwe and I were in tears laughing at their outburst which derailed the Christian on stage. We couldn’t laugh openly as we needed to hold the dignity of the occasion. No amount of shushing seemed to be effective to reduce the increasing noise.

Although the Christian on stage seemed younger than me, he could capture my attention with his analogy of the word. He talked a lot about us being prepared for heaven. He made an example of the biblical Noah. Noah, apparently, kept on warning people about the storms but people never took him seriously. The Christian guy intelligently made himself seem like he was Noah and telling us, and the drunks behind us, to ‘accept Jesus’. He wanted us to raise our hands - to show him we accept Jesus as our saviour. I’m sorry; I was not going to raise my hand just because he was good with words. One time, when I stayed in Pretoria, I was invited by an attractive woman I was interested in to a service at her church. Then came the part of raising your hand if you accept Jesus, I did. Three pastors almost knocked me to the ground slapping my shiny chiskop saying they are praying for demons inside of me. I said No More! Leave my demons alone. I disappeared so quickly. But, I digress....

You could see Velile’s vanished vintage looking coffin from the tent. It had a bouquet of flower arrangements on top of it. That sneak peak kept on reminding me why I decided to come. I came because I wanted to comfort his family. I occasionally fell into a wandering mind though; I started remembering him, Velile, at my own fathers’ memorial service night vigil. He came late and was singing the loudest at the tent. I think he was as chaotic as those people at the back of the tent. He also sang with a beautiful voice and wanted to help out. He also wanted beer as payment. I found myself smiling at the similarity of it all. The on and off commotion continued behind us, but one woman had had enough of it.

Mrs Shandu, an overweight, high-blood pressure, short-tempered middle aged woman, jumped up in the middle of a drunken tenor’s outburst of "uJesu ...” She waved her chubby arms in the air from the front row of the tent screaming "No! No! No! No!", charging towards the drunk tenor guy.

The rowdy tent went dead silent.

“You have no right to come and deliberately cause commotion in this night vigil. We have a dead body in this house but you are being disrespectful.”

A defiantly drunk stubborn voice at the back of the tent dared and asked “What’s wrong with singing? This guy is just singing.” Mrs Shandu swiftly switched to him like he would chew and spit him..

“I saw you practising outside the tent when I walked in. You were already causing disorder. Did you plan to cause chaos here!? You better get out. I said get out!”

Nocturnal silence prevailed inside the tent.

After a long awkward moment, Mrs Shandu went on to the stage. She opened a hymn book, looked at the people in the tent and said

"Please don’t join me. I know how sing alone without anyone helping”, effectively blocking Pavarotti who seemed to sober up after receiving direct discipline.

Someone at the back of the tent made an unclear comment. She swiftly turned to the tent

“I said GET OUT! If you want us to take it outside you must say so now! I can hold my own any time of the day. Do not be fooled by the bible we read and think we are fools”, looking straight at the now quiet mourners.

She had effectively stamped her authority with an iron fist. Rowdy tent was as quiet at cemetery. She sang solo and opened a verse in the book of Exodus. The decorum of the function returned. Zwe and I looked at the clock and decided it was enough for the evening.

Hamba Kahle Velile

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