Funerals near our village are fairly common. Up until now I have not participated fully, and only at homes where I had some connection to the deceased. Usually my attendance involves 15 minutes or so of greeting the grievers as they sit in front of their house, men sitting on stools in one area and women sitting on reed mats in another. Sometimes there is a crying woman, but always a fire burning, and a meal for all those attending. Attendees are not invited, but anyone who sits down and wants to spend time with the mourners is welcome.
Gina had interacted with a family in which a male head of household had died yesterday, and she may have her own post about that. That same man was apparently well respected in our area, and even though I did not know him I chose to attend the funeral. It turns out it was a Sunday, and even though I was planning on going to church that day to contact some of the fish farmers I work with, all church services that day were cancelled to allow for people to attend this funeral. Sunday services are one of the few things you can count on in rural Zambia, so when I learned this I felt obliged and interested to go. Also, my friends Ryvus and Ryford were going, so it would be an opportunity to be able to ask questions about the funeral.
We rode our bikes past a carpenter and we could here the hammering of a coffin being built. A little further and we dismounted our bikes as we approached the home of the person who died, as is custom to respect the mourners. We sat down on stools in the "men's area", though as a special guest I was given a regular chair to sit in, even when I protested that I didn't need it. We heard the muffled sounds of a group of people singing and drumming inside the house of the deceased. Their were quiet murmurs of those arriving as they greeted the family or informal eulogies being given in smaller circles. I got a few odd looks from children and others who were surprised to see a white person at a Zambian funeral. After a while we heard a couple of raised voices arguing about something. The voices turned into several and slowly elevated in volume as more and more people discussed what was happening. Eventually the voices died down again but there was one man who was still visibly and audibly upset, so much so that people were chuckling at him as if he was over-reacting. But Ryvus and Ryford made it clear that what had happened was a grave insult. One man who was assisting with preparing the body for placing in the coffin (which includes rubbing the joints of the deceased with vaseline to keep them limber) had washed his hands in the same pot from which people had just recently eaten, AND he had gone back and touched the wife of the dead man on the arm. The first offense was big enough to cause problems alone, but the second offense was grounds for accusation of witchcraft.
That issue died down for a while and then the coffin was brought out with the body already in it, though the nails simply held the lid down without actually being fully pounded in. I remarked how small the coffin was, about 5' long and 20" wide for a 35-yr old. Everyone, including the man who washed his hands offensively, crowded around the coffin. Another man explained what the man-who-washed-his-hands had done. And a grieving wife, crying as she approached, accused the man of juju, black magic, otherwise known as witchcraft. Apparently the man died suddently, appearing healthy up until the evening before his death the following day. The accused did not seem sorry or regretful. He simply stood with a permanent frown/sneer on the left side of his face and although about 50 years old, wore shorts, which is practically unheard of in Zambian culture in both rural and urban area for anyone older than pre-teen. Not even attempting to apologize did not improve his standing with the crowd. In a crowd grieving for the death of a respected man I watched as they started making an unspoken case against the man, looking for some kind of scapegoat to accuse for the death of a young healthy person. The man-who-washed-his-hands was pushed away from the coffin before it was raised. The wife of the man walked underneath the coffin in a ritual that allows the woman to forget, eventually, her dead husband so she can move on with life. Wailing women, among about 300 mourners, followed the coffin on a 1 kilometer march up the road and into the forest to the graveyard. The graveyard was nondescript except for a few mounds of rocks half a meter high and the freshly dug hole for the newly deceased, though Ryford and Ryvus pointed out a few other spots with subtle indications of a burial some years back.
A man said a final eulogy before 8 men nailed the lid on the coffin shut and lowered the coffin in, swiftly burying the coffin. The hollow sound of dirt on the wooden coffin prompted another round of wailing from women and even a few men, including the one who scolded the man-who-washed-his-hands. After the last shovel was placed on the grave, the 8 men patted the dirt down in a musical rhythm, followed by others placing rocks on top of the grave, acting as a headstone. A eulogizer thanked everyone for coming and the mourners walked back to the dead man's house. A woman fainted along the side of the road and was being attended to, likely because of dehydration and hunger. Mourners particularly close to the deceased such as wives, mothers, fathers, and children spend the previous night crying and wailing and don't eat from the time of the death to the time of the burial.
Back at the house people gathered again and were thanked for coming. Typically this would be the end of the funeral accept for a few closer friends who would stay and console or a few stragglers who would come to pay their respects. But the earlier insult prompted a second gathering within the funeral. The man-who-washed-his-hands was asked to sit in a larger ring of men. One important villager, called a headman, explained what had happened earlier in the day. The man-who-washed-his-hands remained silent, despite obvious calls from the crowd to explain himself. After 5 or 10 minutes of people starting at the accused, and even going so far as to toss stones at him, a group of headmen conversed amongst themselves and announced that the judging of the accused would commence the following day. The crowd was not happy to see this go unresolved. Others yelled that the man had already started removing things from his house and would be running off later today to avoid the judgement tomorrow. The man's unashamed attitude only made the crowd even happier to declare the man guilty before trial.
About a week later I learned that the man had in fact left the village that evening and so did not get an official judgement. I could tell from the crowd's attitude that judgement would not be in his favor.
No comments:
Post a Comment