I hate black funerals. Maybe I wouldn't hate them so much if I were a black man. "The 'boys' go out and extend their 'After Tears', leaving us with their children and the endless washing of dishes. I hate black funerals."I posted this rant online after a long week of grief. This was the third funeral of an immediate family member, with my mother as the chief mourner. As the last living child and daughter, I had to be strong and responsible. Responsible for taking orders from my aunts, receiving guests, and making tea. This is what good daughters in black African families do. Except I am not strong, not good and definitely not responsible. I dodged all that by hanging around at the gate, directing people and confirming that this was the "funeral house", so that I could escape the clucking judgment of the women in charge.From this vantage point I observed the social activities and duties of everyone involved, and thought through why I hate black funerals .They are big, emotional events. Everyone rallies around the bereaved and helps with catering, prayers and hymn sessions. It's a remarkable time, with the African values of ubuntu and caring for one's neighbours. But black funerals also reveal an insidious aspect of gender roles and how "culture" is used to extract labour and sacrifice from women, while giving the men a free pass to have a good time: drinking, eating and finding solace with friends. My reluctance and often refusal to take part stems from this, not from laziness when it comes to cooking, dishing up food, running around with serving trays and washing dishes.This makes me a bad, disrespectful girl. Yes, at 34, when it comes to family funerals, I am still a girl.During my family funerals I saw my male cousins and male family friends getting wasted on booze and weedwhile being served meat by the women.The "boys" would disappear for hours on errands, giving them a chance to hit on girls. The aunts, meanwhile, gave orders to the younger women, about what to cook, who to serve, what to wear and how to behave. The females had to maintain the respectability of the family while the males got to be, well, men. This left me stewing with rage and resentment. If, during a funeral, I were to go off and party, all the aunts would call me a slut.Then there is getting into debt feeding people. It is often carried by the women, who usually take out the funeral policies, and last-minute personal loans to give the dead a dignified funeral - at the expense of the living. I don't believe it needs to cost more than school fees and a year's groceries.What kind of social pressure is this, and why are women bearing all the real responsibility alone, while lacking the clarity of thought that is required during such an emotionally trying time? Why are other women complicit in this?What angers me is that, not only do my female elders never back me up when I raise these burning issues, they can't (or won't) be the mbokodos they're meant to be.Karabo Kgoleng is a recipient of the South African Literary Award for Journalism...