Losing You Again - By Yanga Ziwele

Written By: Yanga Ziwele

Category: Creative Non-Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Yanga Ziwele shares an introspective piece titled "Losing You Again," featured in the Creative Non-Fiction category of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This work delves into the complexities of familial relationships, personal loss, and the cultural nuances of mourning. Through poignant prose, Yanga invites readers into a deeply personal narrative, exploring themes of identity and unspoken connections.

About the Work

"Losing You Again" is an evocative narrative that captures the raw emotions of loss and the intricate web of family ties. Yanga Ziwele skillfully uses vivid imagery and introspective reflections to convey a sense of longing and unresolved relationships. The piece is imbued with a somber yet reflective mood, offering a glimpse into the cultural rituals surrounding funerals and the universal yearning for familial connection and understanding.

Losing you again

Original Submission by Yanga 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, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices and artistic expression. This competition showcases talent from around the world, fostering a community of writers who share their unique perspectives through poetry and creative writing. Participants are encouraged to explore a wide range of themes, contributing to a rich tapestry of global narratives.

We extend our gratitude to Yanga Ziwele for sharing the deeply moving piece, "Losing You Again," in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your narrative offers profound insights into the complexities of familial bonds and personal loss. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your inspiring work in the future.

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.