The first time I planned a funeral, it wasn’t mine — it was my mother’s. But it was during that emotionally intense and beautiful send-off that I began quietly planning my own. That was 21 years ago.
My mother left us with many gifts, but among the most enduring was the clarity and relief we felt during her final farewell. She had planned it all — from the cow to the coffin — with grace and detail that only someone deeply aware of life’s fragility could manage. Even the cow, which some thought had been donated, was one she had quietly paid for when she knew she was entering the winter of her life.
Inspired by her, I drew up my own funeral budget shortly thereafter. I was just a news producer then, a name known only to my colleagues and my family. My plan was simple: no casket, just cremation. A modest budget for the days leading up to the funeral. A Johannesburg memorial service, transport of my body to Durban, and food for mourners on the day. Three bouquets of flowers. That was it — my version of dignity and peace.
Back then, the plan cost R100,000. Today, that figure has ballooned to about R150,000 — and that’s still considered modest in today’s climate of “over-the-top” funerals. And here’s where it gets tricky: as my profile has grown, the pressure from my loved ones has also grown. I’ve always been driven by the fact that I’m an aunt, a grandmother, and recently a mother to a three-year-old toddler.
But my family worries that society will judge them if they follow my plan. I’ll be remembered as “cheap,” or worse, that they’ll be seen as neglectful for not burying me in designer caskets and opulent décor. More than once, I’ve heard it said that they “can’t go cheap on your coffin.”
But here’s what I keep returning to: when I die, I want the people I love to have stability, not stress. I want them to pay school fees, buy groceries, keep the lights on, and take time to grieve, not take out loans or host fundraising initiatives. I want them to live, not perform.
This has become a difficult, emotional discussion in my family — one that I imagine plays out in many households across South Africa. This brings me to a larger question: What conversations are you having with your family about how you want to be buried? And more importantly, what kind of conversation should we be having as a nation about the cost of dying?
It bothers me deeply when the families of public figures plead for government help to cover funeral costs — not because support isn’t sometimes needed, but because we’ve normalized extravagant farewells that often have little to do with the actual life lived.
Why are we borrowing money to bury people? Why are we celebrating life by financially crippling the living?
A funeral is not a public relations campaign. It’s a moment of remembrance, a ritual of closure, and it should never become a contest of prestige. Yet too often, we treat it like an Instagram event — curated, photogenic, and utterly unaffordable.
We need to rethink this. We need to talk to our families, to our children, and ourselves — and plan for our deaths with the same love and responsibility that we prepare for our lives. Nothing is undignified about a funeral that respects both the departed and the living.
So I’ll keep my plan. Cremation. Three bouquets. No performance. Just love, memory, and whatever money is left to serve those I’ve left behind.