Eric's Funeral: Part One
Getting There
Eric is from Seme, a community about 40 minutes by matatu from Kisumu. Lake Victoria is visible for much of the ride. I meet Walter at 10:25 in down town Kisumu and we walk to the matatu station. He carries a bouquet of fresh flowers with ribbons, placed tenderly in a plastic bag and sprinkled with water. On the way, we pass through Jomo Kenyatta Park, to use their public restrooms. It's the first time I've walked through this central city park and I don't want to leave. A long, white building housing a restaurant under green and white awnings sits across the expansive and very green lawn, reminding me of the elegant horse track in Saratoga Springs, New York. Reminding me of prosperity and leisure. Two things I sometimes forget exist. And the restaurant, with it's huge patio overlooking the lawn, is a perfect spot for drinking a cold Coke or a beer and writing. Walter greets an older man who turns out to be a friend of Walter's late father, who, along with this man, was a political activist in Kisumu. Walter says politiking is in his blood having grown up watching his Dad. He says President Kibaki is visiting West Africa today and will be near Seme, where the funeral is being held.
Kenya's President Kibaki was the great hope for Kenyans when he and his rainbow coalition party were elected in 2002. They promised to stop corruption. Some progress has been made. But there's much left to do and people feel corruption is still just as bad, or could return to the extreme very easily. Each day, the newspaper headlines call for Kibaki to dismiss his cabinet.
We walk to the market across from the matatu station where Walter buys two trees, each about a foot high, for 50 shillings total. He'll plant them near Eric's grave. As we seek out the matatu going to Seme, a street boy shadows me. Walter, without a word, hands a Coke vendor 20 shillings and points to the boy, who takes the Coke gladly. We wait about 20 minutes for the matatu to fill up, then drive north around the lake. Seme is next to Kit Mikaye, a giant natural rock sculpture made of three huge, stacked stones. Kit Mikaye means “first wife” and the structure does resemble a woman's figure, large and powerful, who might dominate her husband's second, third or fourth wives.
We alight at Kit Mikaye, along with Tom, who lives in Nyalenda, and walk back along the red dirt “highway” until we hear music. About 200 yards from the highway a red tarp is strung between trees and energetic, modern music bounces out to meet us, as though there's a festival in the bush. Mama Eric once had a mud house here, but it crumbled. Now only bits of wall enclose bushes where rooms once enclosed people. A temporary “house” has been constructed from tree branches and grasses. In the doorway stands Mama Eric. Just outside the hut, Eric rests in his coffin, a woven mat protruding from the roof to shade Eric's glass-encased face.
A scrawny dog rests in the shadow of the coffin. We stop to view Eric while Walter says a prayer. Though only 26-years-old, Eric looks like an old man. He died Tuesday a week ago, 11 days before the funeral. His family didn't have money for the coffin or for transporting the body from Kisumu, so the funeral was postponed and postponed while Eric's body was kept in the city morgue.
We step under the tarp and are ushered, encouraged, to the front, the very front, where cushioned couches wait. Taking the most comfortable seat doesn't seem right, but they insist on the mzungu sitting up front and I don't want to offend. I actually just want to melt, invisible, into the furniture, but that doesn't happen—could never happen. Several guys from Nyalenda are there and we shake hands. Walter walks away to photograph Eric and as I'm sitting, looking at Kit Mikaye across the field and highway, I hear a toy whistle being blown. Incessantly. Wondering if this is part of the ceremony, I look to see a tall, thin young man, clearly drunk, stumbling through the dusty bush toward the tent. He grins and stops in front of me. But he doesn't really stop for part of him, mostly his head and shoulders, keeps moving in circles. He shakes my hand and speaks in Luo and one of the ladies sitting behind me throws a stick at him to scare him away. His hand, covered in dirt, deposits soil into my hand. As he jerks away, blowing his whistle, I notice dirt and dried leaves clinging to his back, as though he's fallen down recently.
The reverend presiding over the service sits up front, facing us. He's skinny, something most old men in Kenya have in common. He wears a light blue suit of thin material. His socks, while the same color, sport different patterns. One has woven vertical stripes while the other has a fisherman net's design. A woman comes from the make-shift hut/house and places two faded, quart-sized Kimbo containers on the table where the reverend is earnestly writing on loose-leaf paper. Kimbo, a vegetable solid for cooking, has the tag line “For the tastiest food.” She has placed ornamental grass in the containers. The wind blows, lifting and lowering the tarp overhead, and cascading the Kimbo containers. But the reverend doesn't stop writing. It's only 30 minutes later, when he completes his list, that he stands and walks about the area, picking up chunks of hardened earth and breaking them against tree trunks. He returns to the table, empties the Kimbo containers and places the earth at the bottom. He then lovingly arranges the grass so it stands secure. The containers won't be swayed by the wind.
Eric is from Seme, a community about 40 minutes by matatu from Kisumu. Lake Victoria is visible for much of the ride. I meet Walter at 10:25 in down town Kisumu and we walk to the matatu station. He carries a bouquet of fresh flowers with ribbons, placed tenderly in a plastic bag and sprinkled with water. On the way, we pass through Jomo Kenyatta Park, to use their public restrooms. It's the first time I've walked through this central city park and I don't want to leave. A long, white building housing a restaurant under green and white awnings sits across the expansive and very green lawn, reminding me of the elegant horse track in Saratoga Springs, New York. Reminding me of prosperity and leisure. Two things I sometimes forget exist. And the restaurant, with it's huge patio overlooking the lawn, is a perfect spot for drinking a cold Coke or a beer and writing. Walter greets an older man who turns out to be a friend of Walter's late father, who, along with this man, was a political activist in Kisumu. Walter says politiking is in his blood having grown up watching his Dad. He says President Kibaki is visiting West Africa today and will be near Seme, where the funeral is being held.
Kenya's President Kibaki was the great hope for Kenyans when he and his rainbow coalition party were elected in 2002. They promised to stop corruption. Some progress has been made. But there's much left to do and people feel corruption is still just as bad, or could return to the extreme very easily. Each day, the newspaper headlines call for Kibaki to dismiss his cabinet.
We walk to the market across from the matatu station where Walter buys two trees, each about a foot high, for 50 shillings total. He'll plant them near Eric's grave. As we seek out the matatu going to Seme, a street boy shadows me. Walter, without a word, hands a Coke vendor 20 shillings and points to the boy, who takes the Coke gladly. We wait about 20 minutes for the matatu to fill up, then drive north around the lake. Seme is next to Kit Mikaye, a giant natural rock sculpture made of three huge, stacked stones. Kit Mikaye means “first wife” and the structure does resemble a woman's figure, large and powerful, who might dominate her husband's second, third or fourth wives.
We alight at Kit Mikaye, along with Tom, who lives in Nyalenda, and walk back along the red dirt “highway” until we hear music. About 200 yards from the highway a red tarp is strung between trees and energetic, modern music bounces out to meet us, as though there's a festival in the bush. Mama Eric once had a mud house here, but it crumbled. Now only bits of wall enclose bushes where rooms once enclosed people. A temporary “house” has been constructed from tree branches and grasses. In the doorway stands Mama Eric. Just outside the hut, Eric rests in his coffin, a woven mat protruding from the roof to shade Eric's glass-encased face.
A scrawny dog rests in the shadow of the coffin. We stop to view Eric while Walter says a prayer. Though only 26-years-old, Eric looks like an old man. He died Tuesday a week ago, 11 days before the funeral. His family didn't have money for the coffin or for transporting the body from Kisumu, so the funeral was postponed and postponed while Eric's body was kept in the city morgue.
We step under the tarp and are ushered, encouraged, to the front, the very front, where cushioned couches wait. Taking the most comfortable seat doesn't seem right, but they insist on the mzungu sitting up front and I don't want to offend. I actually just want to melt, invisible, into the furniture, but that doesn't happen—could never happen. Several guys from Nyalenda are there and we shake hands. Walter walks away to photograph Eric and as I'm sitting, looking at Kit Mikaye across the field and highway, I hear a toy whistle being blown. Incessantly. Wondering if this is part of the ceremony, I look to see a tall, thin young man, clearly drunk, stumbling through the dusty bush toward the tent. He grins and stops in front of me. But he doesn't really stop for part of him, mostly his head and shoulders, keeps moving in circles. He shakes my hand and speaks in Luo and one of the ladies sitting behind me throws a stick at him to scare him away. His hand, covered in dirt, deposits soil into my hand. As he jerks away, blowing his whistle, I notice dirt and dried leaves clinging to his back, as though he's fallen down recently.
The reverend presiding over the service sits up front, facing us. He's skinny, something most old men in Kenya have in common. He wears a light blue suit of thin material. His socks, while the same color, sport different patterns. One has woven vertical stripes while the other has a fisherman net's design. A woman comes from the make-shift hut/house and places two faded, quart-sized Kimbo containers on the table where the reverend is earnestly writing on loose-leaf paper. Kimbo, a vegetable solid for cooking, has the tag line “For the tastiest food.” She has placed ornamental grass in the containers. The wind blows, lifting and lowering the tarp overhead, and cascading the Kimbo containers. But the reverend doesn't stop writing. It's only 30 minutes later, when he completes his list, that he stands and walks about the area, picking up chunks of hardened earth and breaking them against tree trunks. He returns to the table, empties the Kimbo containers and places the earth at the bottom. He then lovingly arranges the grass so it stands secure. The containers won't be swayed by the wind.
posted by Cindi at 6:05 AM
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