Losing You Again - By Y ZIWELE

Written By: Y ZIWELE

Category: Creative Non-fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the poignant creative non-fiction piece "Losing You Again," Yanga Ziwele offers a deeply personal reflection on family, identity, and the enduring impact of loss. Submitted to the prestigious Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative explores the complex emotions surrounding a funeral and the memories that shape our relationships.

About the Work

"Losing You Again" is a candid exploration of the narrator's relationship with their mother, marked by absence and longing. Yanga Ziwele crafts a vivid portrayal of a funeral, weaving together reflections on family ties and personal identity. The narrative's raw honesty and emotional depth invite readers to contemplate the lasting impressions of those we love, even when they seem distant.

Losing you again

Original Submission by Y ZIWELE

Losing You Again

By Yanga Ziwele

I have not seen this woman in years. And if the need arose, I could approximate the number of times we had spoken on the phone for each of those years. Like distant cousins who only kept in touch out of obligation.

It is only biology that binds us. The evidence is written all over me; my bushy eyebrows and my teeth; the way I press a knuckle into my cheek and bite the flesh from the inside when I'm thinking; the rare flashes of rage that still shock me when they surface. They are reminders that, whether I knew her or not, some part of her has always lived in me.

The truth is that so much of what I know about Xoliswa Ziwele was never learned from her. It was pieced together from stories told by my aunts, by family friends, and by people who knew her when she was herself. Almost like a historical figure.

Today is her funeral. I am wearing a check blue shirt, khaki pants, a brown jacket, and the Arthur Jack shoes I was only supposed to take out of the box for my graduation. I cannot quite tell what colour they are. Some shade of grey. The suede makes it hard to tell. Tatomncinci, my father's younger brother, bought them for me. They are the most expensive thing anyone has ever given me, and I wish everyone at the funeral paid more attention to them than the rest of my clumsily pieced-together outfit.

Graduation is in a month's time. I had really hoped that the next time my mother and I spoke I would be sending her pictures from the day her only son became the first graduate in her family. I did not assume she would come. But, if I graduated, she would be elated. In no time I would get a good job, and build her a house. That would be our home. She would drink less. And we would have conversations, and fights that would mend the cracks in our relationship.

But, here we are, in this two roomed brick house we call our homestead, singing hymns, preparing to lay her to her “final resting place.”

My mother has beautiful dark skin, shiny and short s-curled hair, and a bright white smile. But, she does not look anything like herself in the coffin. I have never seen a dead person before. I used to lie to my friends when I was eleven about having seen my grandmother's body at the hospital when she died. But the truth is that this is the first time I am seeing "umzimba." I wish I had something to compare it to. The lifelessness in her skin. Her crooked lips.

The humdrum funeral songs do not stop, neither does the incessant praying. It all seems so melodramatic and pointless. I hate how we, black people, turn funerals into church revivals, like we have one last chance to save the departed people’s souls, or ours. I scan the room to find my aunts’ faces wet with tears, eyes wide shut in prayer. Sis Ntosh, my mother’s best friend is

standing at the head of the coffin. She is not crying, or praying like the rest of these people. Her face is blank, and I think she might be hung over.

The Priest's voice subsides, and everyone else follows suit, saying their amens.

I try to imagine what my mother looked like before she fell sick, or when she took her last breath. Was she thinking of me? Would she have had any last words for me if I had been there? I can still see flashes of her smile, but the rest of her face does not come.

I am in pain, yes, but I am also embarrassed by the state of this matchbox house her send off is being carried out in. I wish none of my friends had come. I do not want anyone to feel sorry for me. Or to try and make sense of who I am out in the world, versus where I come from. Despite my silent wishes, Sisipho, my best friend at uni drove all the way from East London to “show support.” Khanyisa, my high school best friend, also came back from Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University where he pursues economics studies like we had always planned. Unfortunately, I could not join him due to, well, a lack of everything, including the application fee. So I opted for a last resort institution for under-achievers and the under-privileged of rural Eastern Cape. I hate that I have to mourn my mother, and simultaneously play the clown so that my friends do not treat me like a broken vase.

My mother died sad, and lonely. A shell of the confident, smart, sweet-but-stern individual she once was. I wonder if this is how I will die too. With all my potential. My friends having nothing to say except, “we had fun.”

Sunday comes, and the family washes my mother's clothes for the last time before they are distributed amongst family members. We have slaughtered igusha yokuhlamba izandla. I am reeling from a brutal hangover, but I keep myself busy returning imihlakulo, neembiza, nezitulo that had been borrowed from neighbours for the funeral.

The yard slowly empties out. Distant aunts and uncles who travelled cities and villages have started leaving; all promising to keep in touch. “Call us if you need anything.” A promise they will break as soon as they return to their lives in whatever fucking part of the world they crawled out of.

My aunts find me in the cold dark bedroom hunched over, wailing like I had just gotten the news of my mother’s passing a minute ago.

For the first time this week I have nothing to do. No funeral to prepare for. No manly work to carry out. Just the realisation that any amends left to make are between me and the little boy who waited for his mother to see him.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a celebration of literary talent from around the world. Participants submit works across various genres, sharing unique stories and creative expressions. This competition stands as a platform for writers to showcase their voices and connect with a broader audience.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Yanga Ziwele for sharing "Losing You Again" with us. This moving narrative enriches the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, offering profound insights into the complexities of family and identity. Thank you, Yanga, for your courageous storytelling.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.