Here and After

“Give me 20 shillings for a drink,” the gray bearded old fossil demands of my friend, his slurred speech laced with spittle as it passes through the decaying calcium fence posts that haphazardly poke out of his gums. After being denied his request the bald, shirtless dinosaur staggers a few feet away before slapping at his protruding belly and throwing himself to the ground, howling as though he had been struck down. The crowd erupts in laughter as the inebriated senior rolls about the ground of the homestead, dressed only in a dusty kikoi, crying out about imaginary abuses. He rises and continues his antics, mingling among the men gathered at the homestead, feigning beatings, playing dead, and occasionally gulping down small, hotel shampoo sized bottles of palm wine. To the amusement of all a second character enters the scene: a young shirtless gentleman dressed in a pair of half fastened overalls. He antagonizes the elder of the pair by bellowing comments in his general direction which are immediately met by the drunkenly comical wit of the veteran performer. The two continue to circulate amongst the guests, sparring with one another verbally much to the delight of the attendees. It’s a hilarious scene that couldn’t possibly draw more laughs even if it had been scripted, rehearsed, or planned in any way. This is certainly not the atmosphere one would expect at the funeral of a 7 year old child.

Fifteen feet away the father, a young motorcycle taxi driver, has the appearance of a man who has been hollowed out, stuffed with rusty bicycle spokes, and run through a washing machine before being discarded on the side of the road. His eyes, weary and irritated from hours of shedding countless tears, stare blankly into the distance, oblivious to the comedy unfolding just steps away. He stirs occasionally from his spot on the ground, staggering about when he walks like one who has been injured, though he bears no physical wound. Lower lip a quiver, he holds tight onto a small tattered blanket as the fierce equatorial sun beats down around him, forcing those who have come to grieve into whatever shade they can find.

The arrival of a man at the household is marked with a round of handshakes and high fives with the other males while the arrival of a female is announced by a high pitched, attention exacting sob as she joins the other women in the compound. The weeping is so embellished I ask a friend if it is indeed genuine. He assures me that it is and informs me that the only reason the men aren’t bawling the same way is that they are better at controlling themselves. A gaggle of school children putter in, peers of the deceased, and immediately begin emulating the mourning behavior of the grown-ups, the girls huddling together as they cry loudly.

Two hours after the burial was “scheduled” we continue to sit and wait, men on one side of the compound, women on the other. The delay and apparent “lack of order” would not be present “if these people were Christians” another person from outside the community feels it necessary to tell me. Behind the scenes a local carpenter works diligently, putting the finishing touches on a plain child-sized coffin.

At last a party of men emerges from the main house carrying the tiny casket as an entourage of lamenting women follows closely behind. Leading the procession is the comedian in overalls, though his demeanor now much more somber than before. The once vivacious child is lowered into her resting place between the home and the maize field as a short prayer is spoken. In unison the women erupt into a volley of weeps and sobs powerful enough to turn even the fiercest looking gargoyle into a blubbering mess as the young males take turns shoveling earth into the gaping hole that has scarred the heart of the homestead. Those close to the family remain behind while the others begin the long walk back to their home in the sun’s dying light. That’s death here, and that’s life.