Even though this country is ravaged by
HIV/AIDS and death is seen often, it doesn’t stop the grief that comes with it
or the shock of a violent death. I tried to keep this as least graphic as
possible but I understand if some of you don’t want to read it. I am writing to
ask for your prayers for his family and to process what happened.
At first I thought he was kidding. Majabane, one of our
translators and close friends, came knocking on our door after dark on
Thursday. I was in the middle of showing pictures of Kruger NP to my teammates.
“A man has just been killed. Is there a sheet or tarp that we can use to cover
the body?” All of us sat there for half a second then sprang into action. “Yeah
there should be something in the closet,” one of us said. “What happened? And who
was killed?” Lila asked as we locked our door and hurried out of the house. “He
was hit by a car while crossing the road. It’s Dadada’s father.” Dadada, and
his sisters’ Siphe (pronounced Spay) and Tembelihle are some of the kids that
regularly hang around the center and some of our favorites. As we approached we
could see the commotion and the lights on the road in front of us. Some of the
kids from his homestead came rushing towards us sobbing. Lila and I stopped to
comfort them while Bry, Jon, and Jess went towards the small crowd on the side
of the road.
A little later I was with 7 of the kids from his homestead.
In an effort to get them away from trauma we had taken them to the center. Mattresses
and blankets were laid out and some of the kids had fallen asleep. I sat with Tembelihle
(about 9 months) rocking her to sleep as she clutched my shirt and necklace.
Dadada (about 7 years) was laying down staring straight ahead, stone faced. As
I thought about what they were about to and already had gone through I began to
cry. I prayed that they would let God be their father, that somehow he would wrap
them in comfort and peace in those moments.
Later on I was by the road with some of the young women from
the area. The police had arrived by this point and were making preparations to
move the body. His mother and some nieces and nephews had not moved from the
road the entire time we had been outside. I was expecting a cry of grief from
the crowd when the police began to move him but it didn’t stop the knot in my
stomach from tightening when I heard it. About a minute later I found myself
holding a 24 year old girl, Spunky, crying with her in her grief and trying to
shield her from looking at the body. I know she won’t want to remember her uncle
like that.
A death is never easy and shocking or violent ones are especially
difficult on the family. The funeral will be sometime this week. Please be in
prayer for his family, it seems as if everyone that we are close to is related
to him somehow.
