Eric's Funeral: Part Two
Hallelujah and Amen!
The tradition at Luo funerals is for friends and family to speak about the deceased before the clergymen take over. Walter is the first person to speak. He talks for 15 minutes, followed by a young woman, followed by an old woman, followed by an even older woman, Eric's tiny, creased grandmother. It's all in Luo, every word. Not one word of English, though Walter occasionally translates the more important messages, like when to stand and when to sit.
The choir arrives and is made up of ladies of all ages, each one wearing a white, lacy scarf tied around her head. They sing and clap with fervor, one solitary voice ringing out the verse while all other voices mesh as backup. It's quite lovely and uplifting. The dog keeps coming into the inner circle between our front seats and the reverend's table. At first, Walter throws dirt clumps and sticks at the dog, to move him out of the “sanctuary,” much as the ladies tried to scare away the guy with the whistle. But now the elders of the church have arrived and the reverend says the choir will go to the road and escort the elders back. The choir sings and claps, walking in unison to the beat, and as they surround the elders, headed our way, the reverend, just behind me, pulls back his right foot and lets it fly into the dog's ass. There's a shrieking howl and I jump, for the dog is at my feet, and he runs from the tent. I feel his shock, feel it for awhile because the reverend didn't care about the dog being in the center until the elders were approaching.
There are seven elders and they stop in front of Eric, serenaded by the choir, and the main guy raises both hands, a bible in his left, and he yells out a prayer up to the mat shading Eric. The preachers take their places in front of us, on cushioned couches, as young men from Nyalenda lift Eric's coffin and bring him under the tarp, lowering him onto a coffee table. The ground is uneven, so someone places a stick under the table leg and now Eric is with us, only inches away. And his mother weeps.
Each preacher gets up to deliver a sermon and every one of them speaks in Luo, never a word in English. And the choir sings as the men take turns preaching. Then one fellow, a small guy in blue short shirt sleeves with a belt buckle that reads “Ford,” for the Ford Motor Company, gets up clutching his bible wrapped in bright yellow oil cloth. Every one of the preachers has a bible that looks as though it's been read at least 4 million times, any color once existing having been worn away by sweating, gripping hands. And this one short guy puts on a performance, practically screaming his message, and spraying me with every word. First, I turn my head because his voice is so loud and its intensity offends me (and I can't, just can't watch any more spit sailing my way). And just when it seems the protruding veins in his neck and forehead will surely burst, baptising us all in his blood, his face goes completely slack, with a slight smile, and he says “Hallelujah,” which the crowd answers with an “amen.” Every time he's about to explode, as I feel his spittle hitting my face and knees and shirt, he steps forward with his slight smile and says “Hallelujah.”
“Amen.”
I want to walk away, seriously think about protesting his very obvious “performance” by removing myself. But I sit quietly while my mind screams “sit down!” He goes on and on and jumps and jerks his arms and spews on more people in the audience, until the choir members are rocking and holding their faces in their hands and speaking in tongues. Well, they're not actually speaking in tongues, just Luo, but they're each saying their own personal prayer in response to the frenzied, spittle-filled words being hurled at us.
Finally, the short preacher stops and asks the choir to sing and he moves back to his spot next the other preachers and I hope and pray he doesn't talk to me after the service.
Mama Eric stands to speak and a heavy-set woman stands next to her, for physical support. Mama Eric's grief slaps me like the reverend's foot on the dog's ass. Tears form and roll from my eyes. A mother loses her oldest son and I cannot imagine the pain she's in. Or can I? She says the word “mzungu” repeatedly and later Walter tells me what she said. It's seems since Kenya was a British colony, Kenyans think mzungu, or white people, know how to do everything. And when a white person says he or she will do something, they do it. Mama Eric was comparing Eric to an mzungu, because any time he told her he was going to do something for her, he did. Then her voice catches and she sobs, though she's working hard not to, and when she hesitates, to reclaim her calm, the woman at her elbow begins to sing and the choir joins and soon everyone is singing, giving Mama Eric time to compose. She does. But she doesn't speak much more before sitting down again.
A young man who lives in Nyalenda, whom I met in the slum, stands in front of the group in his very white, long-sleeve shirt and dark slacks, and begins to speak in English, saying, “There is someone with us today who cannot understand anything that is being said in Luo.” And the ladies in the crowd shout at him, telling him to speak in Luo. So he tells them something in Luo and begins to speak to me directly, in front of the group, in English, thanking me for being there, for everything I've done. Too late for melting into the furniture. I'm ashamed to be thanked simply for showing up. And he asks me to greet the crowd, so I stand and turn and cannot believe the number of faces turned toward me. There are more than 200 people under the tarp. Walter says he will translate. So I tell them I'm honored to be with them. I'm saddened to not have known Eric, but have been told by Walter and several young men in the congregation that he was a wonderful man. I tell them I look forward to getting to know Eric better by getting to know them. I thank them for allowing me to join them on such a sacred and solemn occasion.
The faces looking toward me are upturned, many leaning forward, intent on what I'm saying. I see compassion and recognize genuineness. One young woman's face tells me she finds me sincere. I love her face.
The tradition at Luo funerals is for friends and family to speak about the deceased before the clergymen take over. Walter is the first person to speak. He talks for 15 minutes, followed by a young woman, followed by an old woman, followed by an even older woman, Eric's tiny, creased grandmother. It's all in Luo, every word. Not one word of English, though Walter occasionally translates the more important messages, like when to stand and when to sit.
The choir arrives and is made up of ladies of all ages, each one wearing a white, lacy scarf tied around her head. They sing and clap with fervor, one solitary voice ringing out the verse while all other voices mesh as backup. It's quite lovely and uplifting. The dog keeps coming into the inner circle between our front seats and the reverend's table. At first, Walter throws dirt clumps and sticks at the dog, to move him out of the “sanctuary,” much as the ladies tried to scare away the guy with the whistle. But now the elders of the church have arrived and the reverend says the choir will go to the road and escort the elders back. The choir sings and claps, walking in unison to the beat, and as they surround the elders, headed our way, the reverend, just behind me, pulls back his right foot and lets it fly into the dog's ass. There's a shrieking howl and I jump, for the dog is at my feet, and he runs from the tent. I feel his shock, feel it for awhile because the reverend didn't care about the dog being in the center until the elders were approaching.
There are seven elders and they stop in front of Eric, serenaded by the choir, and the main guy raises both hands, a bible in his left, and he yells out a prayer up to the mat shading Eric. The preachers take their places in front of us, on cushioned couches, as young men from Nyalenda lift Eric's coffin and bring him under the tarp, lowering him onto a coffee table. The ground is uneven, so someone places a stick under the table leg and now Eric is with us, only inches away. And his mother weeps.
Each preacher gets up to deliver a sermon and every one of them speaks in Luo, never a word in English. And the choir sings as the men take turns preaching. Then one fellow, a small guy in blue short shirt sleeves with a belt buckle that reads “Ford,” for the Ford Motor Company, gets up clutching his bible wrapped in bright yellow oil cloth. Every one of the preachers has a bible that looks as though it's been read at least 4 million times, any color once existing having been worn away by sweating, gripping hands. And this one short guy puts on a performance, practically screaming his message, and spraying me with every word. First, I turn my head because his voice is so loud and its intensity offends me (and I can't, just can't watch any more spit sailing my way). And just when it seems the protruding veins in his neck and forehead will surely burst, baptising us all in his blood, his face goes completely slack, with a slight smile, and he says “Hallelujah,” which the crowd answers with an “amen.” Every time he's about to explode, as I feel his spittle hitting my face and knees and shirt, he steps forward with his slight smile and says “Hallelujah.”
“Amen.”
I want to walk away, seriously think about protesting his very obvious “performance” by removing myself. But I sit quietly while my mind screams “sit down!” He goes on and on and jumps and jerks his arms and spews on more people in the audience, until the choir members are rocking and holding their faces in their hands and speaking in tongues. Well, they're not actually speaking in tongues, just Luo, but they're each saying their own personal prayer in response to the frenzied, spittle-filled words being hurled at us.
Finally, the short preacher stops and asks the choir to sing and he moves back to his spot next the other preachers and I hope and pray he doesn't talk to me after the service.
Mama Eric stands to speak and a heavy-set woman stands next to her, for physical support. Mama Eric's grief slaps me like the reverend's foot on the dog's ass. Tears form and roll from my eyes. A mother loses her oldest son and I cannot imagine the pain she's in. Or can I? She says the word “mzungu” repeatedly and later Walter tells me what she said. It's seems since Kenya was a British colony, Kenyans think mzungu, or white people, know how to do everything. And when a white person says he or she will do something, they do it. Mama Eric was comparing Eric to an mzungu, because any time he told her he was going to do something for her, he did. Then her voice catches and she sobs, though she's working hard not to, and when she hesitates, to reclaim her calm, the woman at her elbow begins to sing and the choir joins and soon everyone is singing, giving Mama Eric time to compose. She does. But she doesn't speak much more before sitting down again.
A young man who lives in Nyalenda, whom I met in the slum, stands in front of the group in his very white, long-sleeve shirt and dark slacks, and begins to speak in English, saying, “There is someone with us today who cannot understand anything that is being said in Luo.” And the ladies in the crowd shout at him, telling him to speak in Luo. So he tells them something in Luo and begins to speak to me directly, in front of the group, in English, thanking me for being there, for everything I've done. Too late for melting into the furniture. I'm ashamed to be thanked simply for showing up. And he asks me to greet the crowd, so I stand and turn and cannot believe the number of faces turned toward me. There are more than 200 people under the tarp. Walter says he will translate. So I tell them I'm honored to be with them. I'm saddened to not have known Eric, but have been told by Walter and several young men in the congregation that he was a wonderful man. I tell them I look forward to getting to know Eric better by getting to know them. I thank them for allowing me to join them on such a sacred and solemn occasion.
The faces looking toward me are upturned, many leaning forward, intent on what I'm saying. I see compassion and recognize genuineness. One young woman's face tells me she finds me sincere. I love her face.
posted by Cindi at 5:59 AM
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