The last two months have been wrought with experiences and
emotions. August and September were a
flurry of activity – I lost myself in moving from one thing to the next,
knowing I had more than I wanted to manage but trying to juggle and savor. Just when things were settling down, a
colleague who has been supportive of me suddenly lost her husband. Our roles reversed and it was my time to
support her. I accompanied her to her husband’s
home area for the burial. It was painful
and yet not my pain. There is a
heaviness about grief and also a sacredness.
There are moments of that week that may stay with me forever, if moments
can last that long.
I have learned many things these past weeks but one is a
deeper appreciation for “kusindikiza” – a tradition of accompanying another
along the way. Here it is done as a sign
of welcome and respect. when a guest leaves, it’s what is done to show them how
much you value their coming and a sign that they are welcome again – you walk
them (or in some cases, join them on the local mini-bus called a matatu ) some
of their way home. The further you walk,
the better. For those who are mourning a
loved one, or even a distant relative, it becomes important to escort them “home”
or to travel with the casket to the home village for burial in the family land –
sometimes hours away in an overcrowded bus.
A burial here often takes place many days after the death,
as it takes time to raise the necessary funds for the arrangements – 5 buses of
people went with us. All of the visitors
need to be fed, at least three meals, perhaps more if they stay on to keep the
bereaved company. The family home was
already crowded when we arrived. I found
a small space on the floor in the center room, not far from the casket, and
tried to stretch my legs, swollen and cramped from the hours of standing, waiting
for the body to be released, and then sitting immobile for the 6-hour trip to
their home. As a special guest, I was
later asked to wait in the master bedroom with other close family members,
listening to the songs, prayers, and weeping from behind the curtain separating
us from the main room. The night was
long, with loud music playing outside and women cooking on open fires. A bare light bulb shown above me and the
other three women who tried to sleep sideways on the bed. I think the light was left on for any
necessary nighttime navigation around the others sleeping in every possible
space on the floor. I woke to wailing
and stumbled to sit with my friend.
Grief is so hard. The cement
floor was cold but the others around me welcoming, sharing a bit of blanket or
cushion borrowed from a chair. These were
moments where time seemed to slow down, painful and raw. Writing brings them
back and I hope they are not tarnished in the sharing.
For me, it was a trip of accompanying my friend as she moved
forward into the unknown, a new life with more responsibilities and,
unfortunately, many times less rights. Just last week, we went together to visit another
friend who lost her husband to a tragic road accident and I heard a familiar
phrase. “Imeshapoa” - a shortened Swahili phrase for “it’s
already okay”. Which of course, it isn’t. But somehow life goes on.
Last night I was able to be part of another sacred
moment. My friend’s sister gave birth to
her first child. It happened quickly,
and I arrived as he just was two-hours old.
The cycle of life continues.
