Perhaps you remember 'Malefa? She is the bright student who nearly didn't return to our school last year because her father lost his job in a South African mine and would be unable to pay tuition. We found her a scholarship through the government (who gets its money from foreign aid), and 'Malefa wrapped up school last year wonderfully in terms of academics. But the Wednesday before school started up this year her father died. As typical death stories go around here, he got the hiccups on Monday and then simply passed away Wednesday morning. 'Malefa came to my house on Thursday. I had already heard about her father through another student. She sat down, we chatted about last year's exam results, and then she said, "I won't be coming to school on Monday."
"Oh, when will you come?"
"I won't be coming. There's no money."
"Money? Don't worry about money. There's money, just like last year. Unless you don't want to come to school?"
"I want to come badly," she said.
"Then come. I'll see you Monday."
That was that. But no mention of her father's passing. No observable signs that she had just lost her dad the day before. She certainly knows me well enough to mention that type of thing.
Then, one morning in the second week of school the minister of the evangelical church in our village came and told us that Moraba's father just died. Moraba is the boy who I brought into the capital here, to this computer, where he wrote you all a little something. I think it was a prayer.
The next day after his dad died Moraba greeted me at school, "Morning, sir! How are you?" He asked with his usual cheer and smile. Moraba had missed that one school day only and was back and lively like nothing had happened, nothing like a sixteen year-old boy losing his father.
I guess the reality is, people here die so often and so young that you get used to it. Even if it's a relative of yours, What did you expect him to live to 100?