It will always end in tears

It felt so good to be out of the damp ground into the sunshine. I stretched my limbs to work the kinks from my joints, removed the dust from my body and jumped up and down the way a calf does when it gets out of a kraal in the morning. A cool breeze filled the air with scents of flowers.

The date on my tombstone told me I had been in the grave for over two years. When they had lowered me into the grave, I had thought I had said goodbye to the outside world. I was aware I was in a coffin but did not know what to do until someone flung the lid of my coffin open.

It was Dokiso, an old friend of mine who had died some three years ago.

“I’m happy I’ve found you long at last,” he said. “I didn’t know where they’d buried you so I had to search all the graves here. And you know, not all occupants were happy to be disturbed. Some turned quiet nasty.”

“You mean it’s possible to get out of here?” I asked.

“Why not? You can go anywhere you want.”

“In that case, I must go and see my wife,” I said. “See how she’s faring.”

Dokiso looked doubtful. “I don’t know whether it’s a good idea to visit your loved ones after you’re dead. You may not like what they’re doing.”

I laughed. “Not my Julie. She loved me very much. Before I died, she promised me never to remarry.”

“You remember Njabulo?”

“Yes, isn’t he the guy who was our pastor?”

Dokiso nodded. “He made the mistake of going out to see his wife. What he saw shocked him so much that he has never ventured out of his sepulcher again.”

I wasn’t suprprised to hear that. Njabulo’s family had been a mess. A wife who cheated on him. This was made worse by children who behaved as if they had not been raised by a pastor.

But my family was totally different. I was one of those men who live their lives for their families. I toiled all my life, living a miserable life, just to make sure that I built a good inheritance for them. People had said that was foolish of me, we only live once and one should enjoy the fruit of his labour. I cast aside such foolish advice and by the time I was called to meet my maker, I had left behind considerable wealth for my wife and children. That is why I was so sure I had nothing to worry about if I visited my family.

“My situation is different,” I replied at length, referring to the case of Njabulo. “We all knew what his wife was doing behind his back. But you know my Julie. She was in a class of her own.”

Dokiso walked around my tombstone. This is when I noticed that the concrete slab was already cracking and overgrown with weeds. He read the epitaph, then turned to me. “For a man who left behind a lot of wealth, don’t you think your final resting place was not only poorly done but is also being neglected?”

He had a good point there. But I couldn’t give a proper explanation unless I saw what my family was doing. With Dokiso still protesting, I ventured out of the land of the dead into the land of the living to see my beloved wife.

In no time I arrived at my house. As I was about to get inside, I froze in the doorway. Sitting in my favourite armchair was a young man sipping brandy. How could that be possible? Julie had promised no one would ever seat in that chair. And the young man was drinking brandy using my glass, imagine that!

Was Julie aware of this? When she came into the room I hardly recognized her. She was wearing a tight fitting jean which showed her red underwear around the waist. Her blouse was equally tight and showed the small button on her belly. She was in black sunglasses and her lips were painted red.

I held my jaw to prevent it from falling to the floor. Were my eyes deceiving me? How could Julie have changed so much? I had never seen her in trousers let alone in clothes that showed her navel. She never even used make up. Now she was not only wearing trousers but ones that showed her under wear.

Julie came over and kissed the young man on the lips. Sacrilege! Where did she learn kissing? We had never kissed. My Julie, bred in the village, knew nothing about kissing. Or had I missed something?

“Let’s go, boo,” Julie purred into the boy’s ear.

Eish! So the boy, of the same age as that of our first born son, was her boyfriend? Why was she doing this? They went into the garage, holding each other’s hands. I followed them, seething with frustrated rage.

“Bae, which car should we use this time?” asked Julie.

The youth looked at the three cars packed in the garage. “We used the Volvo last month, the Toyota last week,” he broke off and eyed my Mercedes hungrily. “Let’s use the Benz.”

They took off in my Benz, with the boy at the wheel. He drove fast and carelessly, not bothering to avoid potholes. I felt like bashing him. The stupid boy, did he know how much I sweated for the car? But there was nothing I could do. The dead can only see but cannot speak or do anything.

They stopped at a shopping mall. Julie led the young man to a section where they were selling expensive men’s suits. I heard her tell him to choose suits of his choice. He selected three suits. The bill was huge, I could see it.

“Boy, I will make you the best dressed man in town!” declared Julie in a sing song voice.

With whose money? I nearly choked with rage. How could she be spending my hard earned money on a worthless boyfriend? And what were my two children doing about it?

I rushed to the lodge that had been left to my first born son. The lodge had borne my name but I was surprised to find that the name had been changed. It didn’t require a genious to know that he had sold it. Children!

With apprehension, I went to the house of my other child. I didn’t find him there. I heard that he had sold it and was living somewhere in a rented house in the slums.

I was now really pissed off. My wife and children were frittering away the fortune that I had sweated blood to earn. Then I remembered Tsetekani, my only brother. What was doing about this? He couldn’t let this to be happening!

I didn’t find him at home. But I heard neighbours saying he had divorced his wife and married a new one. After a brief search, I found him in a bottle store surrounded by a bevy of prostitutes, buying beer as if it cost nada.

Tsetekani had nothing. He depended on me for everything. I didn’t have to ask whose money he was spending. I left before I developed a heart attack. I had to find my uncle. He wouldn’t tolerate such nonsense. He had assured me he would make sure my property was not squandered.

But I was in for more shock. I found him on the verandah of his house which had been in a dilapidated state when I was dying but now looked brand new. The suit he was wearing used to be mine. So was the chair he was sitting in. On a stool stood an expensive bottle of Johnny Walker. Out of a corner of his mouth protruded a cigar that made him look like Fidel Castro. And seated on a mat beside him were three women. He only had one wife when I died. Now he had three. The old pick up outside used to be mine.

I was now shaking with anger. How could these people do this to me? But there was nothing I could do. It’s only in fiction where dead people harm living people.

I returned to my grave a sadder but wiser person. Dokiso was right; never visit your loved ones after you are dead. It will always end in tears.

End