six.

and I miss him. Like, a lot.

Election Season in the US reminds me of this.

It’s funny now because results are trickling in from the midterms, a race that will determine what Congress will look like for the next few years. In this case, it was a Presidential race, an I had just finished my history exam in Grade 9 when I saw the newsflash and needed to rush onto the bus, get home and tell my dad the unimaginable had happened – Donald Trump had become President-Elect of the United States, which meant our prediction (and honestly, those of much of the world) was wrong. I couldn’t wait to get home that day. If I’m being honest, I could’ve done a little less running. But it wouldn’t have changed the outcome. So, running or no running, Trump would have still been President-Elect. And everything else would have happened the same way. 

9 November 2016 was also a Wednesday, like today.  Hm. 

It’s funny. ABBA just came on. He loved this song – Chiquitita. I think I feel a lump forming in my throat, but I know I can’t cry as I hum along to this song. I think it’s more of a smile. There are too many good memories that come with this song, and with the man attached to it, I think I want to rest on those memories more than I want to rest on the pain of grieving. We’ve done this for a while now – 6 years today – and I feel it sting like yesterday. 

When they had come to collect him and the first wave of condolences were offered, everybody filed out, with the promise to return later to discuss the logistics of a funeral – which absolutely annoyed me, because you’d think everyone would let us take a second to clock that Dad’s no more. 

 The only time we had to process this – I believe – was a moment when nobody else was home except for a very confused younger brother, a shell-shocked Tshepang, & a visibly distraught Mother who had just had her other half ripped from her. We embraced each other and said nothing. But it felt heavy. The reigning sense in the room, amidst the tears, was: this is it. Just us. We were used to the house having 3 of us, in bursts though, when Dad was in and out of hospital. But we could go visit, and he’d come back. But this was final. It would just be us. I don’t there was time for either of us to process this, because for those who need to process this, death doesn’t have a grace period.

Saturday mornings aren’t the same anymore – we would make a morning dash to the market after the weekend morning ritual – porridge (or oats) for breakfast. You’d wake up to the smell of that, plated up and ready. We’d do the fruit market and then after all the shopping, sit for ice-cream. That was laid back Pops. In a shirt and shorts. 

There was also very formal Dad – who I was reminded of when I walked past Savelkouls in Brooklyn Mall last night. Top notch suits. Shiny Florshiems. I didn’t like dressing up fancy, much to his chagrin – that was something Rorisang excelled in. But when I donned his tie at Matric Dance, I wish he saw that. In that moment, Rori, Mom and I stood as we did the afternoon he passed. This time, still teary-eyed, smiles all around. For Rori, it might have been more laughter at my discomfort in a suit, but for all of us, a definite “We wish he was here to see this.” There have been a ridiculous number of things I have needed him to be around to witness. Perhaps my first day of Uni, or Rori’s first day of high school. My first radio show, and how far I’ve come since then. I always wonder what he would think of Rori’s height. He didn’t even reach my shoulders then, and now I’ counting down the weeks till my younger brother bullies me for being shorter than me. There are so many things I want to ask him or want to do with him. I think these will only grow with time. Like when I get married, or when I have a child. My older brother recently had a daughter, and I know Dad would have loved her to bits – He came from a family of sons only, and had 4 of his own, so it’s a no brainer that he would have spoiled her rotten. I’ll always feel that void. I think I’ve just learned to live with it? Because it sure as hell hasn’t grown smaller.

You’d think after 6 years, we would have, but I don’t think we’ve mastered the “art” of grieving. 

I usually try to joke about it to try and heal, but I think every time the wave of sadness makes landfall, I’m still 14-year-old Tshepang breaking down in front of a sea of strangers at his funeral. I don’t like that feeling. Because despite all the comforting, and the visitors who brought all the baked goods, I felt alone. No number of hugs or “We’re praying for you” could match up to that. 

I think I still cry often over it. Not as loudly. Not in public, either. But if there was ever a textbook way to grieve, I don’t think that’s been something I can say I’m doing well in. I don’t know if anyone can. Something I am grateful for; is how we console ourselves. Pops was incredible, and I find that whenever we bring up a story about him, we cry, but there’s laughter to soothe the heart, because of who he is. Snap, was.

I have stacked up so many incredible memories with this man, I think I’ll be fine. I’ll still bawl over it, but it’s almost as if I can wipe my tears with all the good Pops was.

It’s been 6 years. And I think I know what people feel when they say, “It feels like it happened yesterday.” It’s still a fresh wound that I think I’m healed from, but I realize I’m not, and that’s fine too. I walk past his parking spot on campus almost daily, perhaps to trick myself into some comfort. I sure as hell know I have a bunch of memories to hold on to, and one hell of a blueprint to live up to. There have been accolades and titles that I know are difficult to live up to, but if there’s anything that outshone red gowns and long resumés, it was Timer, the family man. I think about how great a father he was to me, how great a husband he was to Ma – and I know that if I could strive to be even half of that, that would be incredible. 

I know he’s with me. There’s something very comforting about feeling he’s around, and I think that might just be the only comfort I need. It’s been six years of a nightmare realised. But he’s around. He’s watching. And I hope to God he’s proud of us.