Seated among some unfamiliar older people—men in suit jackets and women with doeks covering their heads—I found myself in a sitting room stripped of its familiar arrangement. Gone were the sofas, the TV, the coffee table, and the Victorian-style ceramic figurines that once decorated the space. Taking their place was a pure white wooden casket, adorned with a lush floral arrangement and a framed photo of Mum, resting atop a foldable silver bier.
It was there that her father—my grandfather, who is now also late—turned to 9-year-old me and gently asked what exactly had happened.
I learnt of my mother’s passing upon arriving home from school. We’d been collected before the normal school day ended. As my younger brother and I got out of the car, my youngest sibling—only four at the time—blurted out, unaware of the gravity of his words:
‘Mummy is dead.’
I didn’t fully grasp what that meant—not then, and certainly not all it would come to mean. Just like I hadn’t understood the seriousness behind our abrupt trips from Harare to Bulawayo when we received news of the passing of both paternal grandparents and a maternal grandmother—each loss occurring in such close succession. Both of my dad’s parents were gone before any of their grandchildren turned ten.
Nineteen years later, if there’s one truth I’ve come to accept, it’s this: death may be inevitable, but it’s something we never truly get used to.
Especially when it arrives without warning. Especially when the person wasn’t known to be seriously ill.
That was the case with my mother. She was gone—just like that—a few days after her hospitalization, due to a pulmonary embolism, as we would later learn. None of us could have imagined that the hospital would be the last place she’d be, far from the beautiful house she and Dad were working so hard to turn into a home.
I remember the beauty of that home vividly. Lush pink, then red, then pink again roses—each bloom separated by a light that highlighted the creativity of the arrangement, especially after sunset—lined the long driveway that led up to a garage admired by my car-enthusiastic brothers. Inside, a massive black stone island served as the centrepiece of the spacious black-and-white kitchen, complete with matching appliances. And my personal favourite: my parents’ maroon-tiled en-suite bathroom—a taste of luxury whenever Mum allowed us the chance.
Mere days before Christmas 2024, news of a church member’s sudden death was shared on the church’s Facebook page. That Sunday, the mood in church was heavy. The sermon was intended to uplift us—focused on sparrows and how God provides for them—but grief lingered in the air. A woman sitting near me sobbed through the entire service.
Afterward, I overheard people cautiously asking what had happened. Some offered uncertain responses like, “I don’t know for sure, but I heard…” I was immediately reminded of those moments online when public figures pass away and their deaths are announced without context—just a request for privacy and prayers. And how any comment asking, “What happened?” is often met with harsh rebuke, as though curiosity, even when rooted in empathy, is somehow disrespectful.
But here’s the thing: I don’t believe it’s wrong to ask.
I understand the need for space—for grief to settle before details are shared. But I also think it’s human to want to understand, to seek meaning, to try and make sense of a sudden loss. Describing those who ask as “brave” feels right to me, because it is brave to ask a question so many treat as taboo.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I need to learn patience—to wait quietly for the details to come in due time. But maybe, just maybe, we also need to make more room for honest questions in the midst of grief.