The sun has not yet risen when the news arrives. A hurried greeting precedes the real reason for the call. ‘A o utlwaletse?’ It is a sepulchral utterance, an agreed code that is whispered. Have I heard? My silence prompts the caller to share the name of the one who has died. My gasp prompts the caller to ask if I am still there. I am. The conversation will tread this path over and over for days. The words have the power to immobilize; they undo long-made plans.
They arrive at ungodly hours, these messages that speak of death. Pronouncements of this kind used to require a face to face visit, if one wished to be correct. Nowadays, it seems a short message will suffice; sometimes the breaking news is stolen from a social networking platform, and passed on, hot and steaming, before it cools. Signed off with a ‘Rest in Peace’ or similar, it burns.
