Chapter 1
‘He’s dead’, they told me.
A shocked look filters itself across my face.
My grandmother breaks down into sorrowful woes.
‘The funeral is tomorrow’, our back neighbors say, clutching onto each other tightly whilst they turn around to leave.
My grandmother grips the back of the chair tightly before sitting down on the edge.
‘Let’s get some rest’, she says, ‘Tomorrow is going to be a long day’.
And so tomorrow comes by with a sorrowful start. The dressing in black, the bowed heads and the teary eyes.
Then we step into the funeral and all hell breaks loose.
My grandmother mourns out loud, ’Oh he was so young!’, she cries hysterically as she moves forward to hug the man’s mother, I assume, as she stands right in front by his casket.
She gasps for air. ‘Yes’, says another, ‘Rick died too young’, the stranger mentions, their head bowed in respect and their eyes glossy.
‘Rick?’, my grandmother says in a confused manner. ‘Yes’, agrees another.
‘Oh! Yes! Rick, poor Rick!’, she says, finally looking around. We were surrounded by a bunch of strangers.
This was the wrong funeral.
She motions herself back towards where we were standing, away from the unfortunate attraction displayed.
And the strangers continue their mourning for their deceased whilst we crawl towards the exit to escape our mistake.
My grandmother’s tears had stopped in her confusion and the only thought that ran through my head, was to never again be a sheep and follow the flock.
That was lesson number one.
We never did go to the right funeral that day.
Apparently, one of us got too sick from a traumatic experience.
But that was just the first time.
The second time happened when we were having breakfast.
My grandfather had heard that the neighbor at the end of the street had been admitted into hospital and had died not long after.
The family had phoned with the bad news and shock filtered itself across our faces.
Why were people dying so much?
And so, the news spread from my grandfather’s grapevine around the community.
My grandmother had gotten her sorrowful woes ready for yet another funeral.
‘Have they given a date for the funeral yet?’, I ask, ‘No’, my grandfather replies with a sad sigh.
‘He was so young’, he says as his forehead creases.
They happened to phone again the next day.
Tears, chocked sobs and the voice of a dead man could be heard over the phone.
Wait
Why was a dead man on the phone?
So, it turns out he wasn’t dead, he was quite alive.
Especially with him screaming his lungs out stating the fact.
So, another lesson learned, don’t believe everything you hear without evidence, even if its in the form of death from the family of the deceased and there’s no dead body as proof.
I know what you’re thinking. That should have been it right?
Wrong
My mother had yet to join in, up until this point.
And so, here we are again, standing in the wrong funeral.
I guess we just like talking to strangers, I hear it can be therapeutic.
Lesson number three, if you keep going to the wrong funerals, you eventually learn how to sneak out towards the exit without others realizing you’re just a weird stranger.
And so, my grandmother speaks to my mother at the supper table that night, ‘Should we make it a family tradition?’
‘No’, I start, ‘I think we’ve had enough adventures venturing into the unknown’, I say finishing my food.
My mother laughs with my grandmother as I ignore their mischievous expressions whilst washing my plate.
I think I’ll go to bed early tonight
Never again, I say, Never again
But then...
Why am I at the wrong funeral again?
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