I've been feeling somewhat like a ghoul
lately because I've been trying to research what the funerals
in my village are like
and have been running around town asking people, "Are there
going to be any funerals next week?"
"No, Jane," answered the village grandmother with whom I stay. "There
are no funerals planned for next week or the week after." But this is actually
a good thing. It means that, although I'm not doing first-hand research on this
subject, nobody in my favorite village is dying either.
Willingly, I switched to second-hand resources - one of the village elders
I knew well and who knew the full 411. "Tell me about funerals," I
asked Mma X. "What are they like? Does just the close family come or is
everyone in the village invited?"
"The whole village comes and also the neighboring villages too."
"And they have a service in a church?"
"Yes. The program lasts for two and a half or three hours. And then they
take the coffin to the graveyard."
"In America, they have open coffins. Is the coffin closed here?"
"Yes. There is a funeral parlor director. He drives the coffin to the graveyard
and the family takes a taxi. The rest of the people just walk."
"And after the funeral?"
"They go back to the family's house and dijo - eat. This always happens
on Saturdays. After that the people go home."
"Do you think that the funerals help in the mourning process?"
"Yes. The people who come to the funeral really try to help the family with
their grief. And the day after the funeral everything is washed - the blankets,
the clothes and the house. Then they put the deceased person's clothes in
a box or suitcase for six months. And after the six months are over, the uncle
comes
and takes it all away."
"What does he do with it?"
"The uncle can do whatever he wants with it. And after six months, all the
members of the immediate family cut their hair."
"What about the funeral preparations?"
"They take the corpse to the mortuary and the funeral is held within the
week, giving relatives time to come in from the cities where they work."
"How does the mourning family feed all those people? Does everyone bring
food? Or does the family save up or go into debt?"
"Funerals are expensive but the whole village helps out. Everyone brings
$2 or $5 or any money you have. You just bring it to help out. Someone brings
meal or sugar. People bring food. Everyone tries to help out. The family kills
a cow."
"So the community uses this opportunity to show support for the grieving
family?"
"Yes." So the people of the village do everything they can to help
take the sting out of death. "Sentle." Good.
PS: So much for academic research. During the following week, however,
the Grim Reaper came to our village and cut a large swath, once again reminding
us that, in an African village, death is never very far away and is a grim
reality of village life. Nine people died, including one small child (pneumonia),
two older men (it was their time), a young man (overdose on drugs), a middle-aged
man (infection - no one said what kind) and my friend's brother, who was
hit
by a car while bicycling along the village's only paved road.
During the whole week before my friend's brother's funeral, the brother's
wife, in a traditional expression of grief, took to her bed and covered
herself with
a blanket while the women of the village came in and out of the room, offering
condolences and sitting on a bench next to the bed for hours on end. I, too,
offered the grieving woman condolences and sat on "the mourners' bench" for
a time. Women were also out in the yard cooking up the slaughtered meat in
large cauldrons and brewing large vats of beer made from mealie-meal, yeast
and malt. Friends and relatives came from all the surrounding villages to
help sit and mourn. And the men helped too - they carried the firewood for
the cauldrons,
helped keep the fires going and offered moral support. It was a sad time.
It was a sad day. But everyone did what they could to help. I was overwhelmed
by the sense of community in this village. Everyone went out of their way
to
help everyone else when the chips were down.
I had to leave my favorite village before that next Saturday arrived so
I missed all the funerals. But it's just as well. Sometimes it's actually
better not
to be an outside observer, a wannabe anthropologist - and this was one of
those times.
BlackCommentator.com Columnist Jane Stillwater
is a freelance writer, civil rights and peace activist from
Berkeley, California. Click
here to contact Ms. Stillwater.
