Eric's Funeral: Part Three
Into the Ground
It's time to give contributions, so space is cleared in front of the coffin and the choir sings and everyone lines up to pass by Eric and drop money in a plastic bowl. It takes awhile for everyone to pass, but once we're out of our seats and standing in the sun, the reverend calls several young men to lift the coffin, to carry it the 12 feet to the grave. Young men scramble into position, gripping the home-made handles, and lift Eric. The choir surrounds the men while the preachers take their place at the gravehead. Placing the coffin on the ground, young men leap into the hole to receive the box and lower it. But the hand-off isn't smooth. It can never be smooth when the grave is barely wide enough to hold the box. Young men brace their feet against grave walls, hovering, to bend and lower the coffin, tilting this way and that, into people-free space.
It's never smooth.
Mama Eric sits in a chair next to the grave, her ever-present friend at her side and the bouquet of flowers on her lap. The choir sings and men leap up onto the dirt mound, swinging shovels and dirt toward the coffin, flinging red dust onto Mama Eric. Women begin to wail. Several women. Many women, walking and wailing with tears flowing, and they lean forward and speak of their agony between wails, marching to the choir's tune. The small preacher in the blue short sleeve shirt stands before me with a big smile on his face, pumping my hand. Tells me his name, which doesn't catch. Behind him, on the other side of the grave, come loud and quick bursts on the toy whistle. As I look into the short preacher's face, I hear the women wailing and the whistle blasting and cannot concentrate on what he is saying.
The preacher is saying, “We heard there was going to be a white man here today,” and I swear he's salivating, as though he's picturing me as a cooked and stuffed turkey. “You have come here to preach God's word?” he asks. The whistle blasts three hard times. “No,” I say, waiting for him to release my hand, “I'm here as a volunteer at a college.”
It's no use. I cannot pay attention to his dancing, happy eyes when women are in pain a few feet away and a drunk guy is tripping over the dirt pile, blowing his whistle and being rejected by the men who shovel. The drunk wants to shovel, but they brush him away, sometimes gently, and keep throwing dirt into the hole. As the dirt piles up over the coffin, Walter and his friends from Nyalenda plant the trees. I take photos of the group bending and packing soil around the tiny trunks. Walter says a prayer over the trees, blessing the locale with prosperity. The short preacher asks me to visit his church, because when people hear a white person will be there, it draws a big crowd.
The drunk guy breaks branches from a bush next to the grave and pokes the branches into the dirt. Someone lays the floral bouquet at the head of the mound. These are the only markers for Eric's grave and soon they will wilt. A few older people want to be photographed by the grave. Then a few more, including Mama Eric. Then younger people want to be photographed and when they see the digital image on the camera, they all laugh out loud and press their heads together to glimpse the tiny camera screen. The young man in the bright white shirt, who thanked me for being there, is standing at the head of the grave, waiting to be photographed with a few young women. The drunk guy steps behind him but is brushed away. Only, he doesn't go away, so the young man in the long shirt sleeves pulls back his hand and slaps the drunk guy across the neck and face and I stop breathing. Paralyzed. My eyes widen and I want to speak but don't. Can't. And I don't take the photo. Walter is nearby and I call him over and say, “That guy just hit the drunk guy,” and he says, “that's the African way,” with an apology in his voice. I must be shaking my head from side to side.
I take the photo and as the group disburses, Walter calls to the drunk guy and motions for him to stand by the grave to have his photo taken. He does, with a smile.
It's time to eat, so we pack up the camera and walk about one-half mile to the next group of houses, where the young man in the long white sleeves grew up. Under a huge, spreading tree, couches are placed in a giant square. A coffee table sits in the center. People coming from the grave site carry couches and chairs and cushions and put them in the shade of houses and trees. Under the giant tree sits a group of about 30 men, most from Nyalenda and most are drinking. Walter introduces me to each one, then we go into a small house across the way. It's just me, Walter and two boxes for chairs and a coffee table.
The white-shirted guy brings in a tray bearing dishes of fried calf liver, dried fish, shredded, steamed cabbage, ugali, sumaki wiki, stewed chicken, rice and goat. It is a beautiful spread of food just for me and Walter and we dig in, eating with our hands from the tray and from the bowls. I'm very hungry and very grateful for this delicious food. They bring us water to drink and water to wash our hands with afterwards. The 30-odd guys are heading back to Kisumu, a few of them on bicycles, which will take about two hours. We say goodbye and walk to the road to hail a matatu. Trucks carrying soldiers pass by, headed back to Nairobi after providing security for the president's visit. Overhead, two helicopters buzz, carrying ministers of this and that and possibly the President of Kenya. Matatus going to Kisumu are packed with people who came out to see the president.
But we finally squeeze into a matatu and soon stop to drop someone in a community. I recognize the place, it's the town where George, a co-worker, grew up. I look for George down the center street. The chances are nil that I'll see George, for he lives in Kisumu and rarely goes home. But I believe I will see him. The first man I see on the street is facing away, but his build is like George's, his gait leisurely and sure. The woman to my right wants out, so I exit the matatu and look back into town, to see if it's George walking with a friend. And it is George! He looks up to the road without me having to shout at him and sees me immediately. I wave and he waves, smiling, “Where are you coming from?” he calls. But I'm being commanded back into the matatu. “I was looking for you,” I yell, “because this is your home. See you Monday.” I watch George and his companion turn behind a house and am happy to see him glance back once more before he disappears. After this hard day, I am happy to see George's friendly face turn toward me once again before he disappears.
It's time to give contributions, so space is cleared in front of the coffin and the choir sings and everyone lines up to pass by Eric and drop money in a plastic bowl. It takes awhile for everyone to pass, but once we're out of our seats and standing in the sun, the reverend calls several young men to lift the coffin, to carry it the 12 feet to the grave. Young men scramble into position, gripping the home-made handles, and lift Eric. The choir surrounds the men while the preachers take their place at the gravehead. Placing the coffin on the ground, young men leap into the hole to receive the box and lower it. But the hand-off isn't smooth. It can never be smooth when the grave is barely wide enough to hold the box. Young men brace their feet against grave walls, hovering, to bend and lower the coffin, tilting this way and that, into people-free space.
It's never smooth.
Mama Eric sits in a chair next to the grave, her ever-present friend at her side and the bouquet of flowers on her lap. The choir sings and men leap up onto the dirt mound, swinging shovels and dirt toward the coffin, flinging red dust onto Mama Eric. Women begin to wail. Several women. Many women, walking and wailing with tears flowing, and they lean forward and speak of their agony between wails, marching to the choir's tune. The small preacher in the blue short sleeve shirt stands before me with a big smile on his face, pumping my hand. Tells me his name, which doesn't catch. Behind him, on the other side of the grave, come loud and quick bursts on the toy whistle. As I look into the short preacher's face, I hear the women wailing and the whistle blasting and cannot concentrate on what he is saying.
The preacher is saying, “We heard there was going to be a white man here today,” and I swear he's salivating, as though he's picturing me as a cooked and stuffed turkey. “You have come here to preach God's word?” he asks. The whistle blasts three hard times. “No,” I say, waiting for him to release my hand, “I'm here as a volunteer at a college.”
It's no use. I cannot pay attention to his dancing, happy eyes when women are in pain a few feet away and a drunk guy is tripping over the dirt pile, blowing his whistle and being rejected by the men who shovel. The drunk wants to shovel, but they brush him away, sometimes gently, and keep throwing dirt into the hole. As the dirt piles up over the coffin, Walter and his friends from Nyalenda plant the trees. I take photos of the group bending and packing soil around the tiny trunks. Walter says a prayer over the trees, blessing the locale with prosperity. The short preacher asks me to visit his church, because when people hear a white person will be there, it draws a big crowd.
The drunk guy breaks branches from a bush next to the grave and pokes the branches into the dirt. Someone lays the floral bouquet at the head of the mound. These are the only markers for Eric's grave and soon they will wilt. A few older people want to be photographed by the grave. Then a few more, including Mama Eric. Then younger people want to be photographed and when they see the digital image on the camera, they all laugh out loud and press their heads together to glimpse the tiny camera screen. The young man in the bright white shirt, who thanked me for being there, is standing at the head of the grave, waiting to be photographed with a few young women. The drunk guy steps behind him but is brushed away. Only, he doesn't go away, so the young man in the long shirt sleeves pulls back his hand and slaps the drunk guy across the neck and face and I stop breathing. Paralyzed. My eyes widen and I want to speak but don't. Can't. And I don't take the photo. Walter is nearby and I call him over and say, “That guy just hit the drunk guy,” and he says, “that's the African way,” with an apology in his voice. I must be shaking my head from side to side.
I take the photo and as the group disburses, Walter calls to the drunk guy and motions for him to stand by the grave to have his photo taken. He does, with a smile.
It's time to eat, so we pack up the camera and walk about one-half mile to the next group of houses, where the young man in the long white sleeves grew up. Under a huge, spreading tree, couches are placed in a giant square. A coffee table sits in the center. People coming from the grave site carry couches and chairs and cushions and put them in the shade of houses and trees. Under the giant tree sits a group of about 30 men, most from Nyalenda and most are drinking. Walter introduces me to each one, then we go into a small house across the way. It's just me, Walter and two boxes for chairs and a coffee table.
The white-shirted guy brings in a tray bearing dishes of fried calf liver, dried fish, shredded, steamed cabbage, ugali, sumaki wiki, stewed chicken, rice and goat. It is a beautiful spread of food just for me and Walter and we dig in, eating with our hands from the tray and from the bowls. I'm very hungry and very grateful for this delicious food. They bring us water to drink and water to wash our hands with afterwards. The 30-odd guys are heading back to Kisumu, a few of them on bicycles, which will take about two hours. We say goodbye and walk to the road to hail a matatu. Trucks carrying soldiers pass by, headed back to Nairobi after providing security for the president's visit. Overhead, two helicopters buzz, carrying ministers of this and that and possibly the President of Kenya. Matatus going to Kisumu are packed with people who came out to see the president.
But we finally squeeze into a matatu and soon stop to drop someone in a community. I recognize the place, it's the town where George, a co-worker, grew up. I look for George down the center street. The chances are nil that I'll see George, for he lives in Kisumu and rarely goes home. But I believe I will see him. The first man I see on the street is facing away, but his build is like George's, his gait leisurely and sure. The woman to my right wants out, so I exit the matatu and look back into town, to see if it's George walking with a friend. And it is George! He looks up to the road without me having to shout at him and sees me immediately. I wave and he waves, smiling, “Where are you coming from?” he calls. But I'm being commanded back into the matatu. “I was looking for you,” I yell, “because this is your home. See you Monday.” I watch George and his companion turn behind a house and am happy to see him glance back once more before he disappears. After this hard day, I am happy to see George's friendly face turn toward me once again before he disappears.
posted by Cindi at 5:48 AM
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