AFTER TEARS

About this story

Every funeral has its politics, and this one has two grannies. Gogo, hair dyed bright red and swearing it's natural, who ran her grandson's life from a house in the woods outside Howick. And Victoria Dube, posture like a queen, Gogo's rival at the Manyano for longer than anybody can remember. The only thing those two women ever agreed on? That each grandchild was far too good for the other one's. Now one granny is in the casket, the church women are singing, and her grandson Themba is trying very hard to keep a straight face — because the minister has the giggles, and because the girl who broke his heart has just walked in on Victoria's arm. What follows is one long summer afternoon: a hymn, a stuck casket, a graveside, a table groaning with rice and stew and Oros mixed far too strong, and a wicker two-seater on the stoep that is exactly one person too small. It is a short, sweet story, ladies — a hand held in church and not much more. But by the time Themba opens his grandmother's bottom drawer, you'll be holding your breath with him. So tell me: is it ever too late?