This morning I was supposed to attend a meeting with the local community banking group. They were having their very fist gathering and I had been invited by way of a very polite note that was handwritten in chitombuka and left with my neighbor earlier in the week. Late yesterday afternoon, however, I was informed that the village headman for nearby Bowa had died and that the meeting was to be postponed due to the funeral.
Early in our training Peace Corps had informed us that it was good integration practice to attend all community events including funerals. I wholeheartedly agree, and as this is to be my home for the next 2 years, I informed my next door neighbor and group village headman Mzikilla Mhone that I would like to accompany him. (This is the same Mhone from whom I have acquired my adopted surname – I am known as Andrew Mhone here in Thazima.) We left my house at 8 am.
I am very fortunate to have Mzikilla as my neighbor and landlord. He is excited, always eager to learn, and he never fails to help teach me more about life here in Malawi. He is a small, goofy man of about 45. He has thick dark curly hair and just a hint of a beard, all speckled with white wisps of age showing through. I tower over him, as by Malawian standards I am a giant. Most days our conversations consist of lots laughing, smiles, and the male hand holding that is quite common and customary here (awkward to me only, though I am getting used to it). We speak in spontaneous bursts of broken English and Chitombuca followed by awkward pauses and the inevitable return to sheepish laughing when the language barrier prevails and our communication breaks down. He is silly and I am thankful for this as it makes my time here that much more enjoyable.
I have however learned that when the situation calls for it, he fills his position of leadership with a stoic nobility and quiet strength that always surprises me. It is easy to appreciate, because though it is in stark contrast to his usual behavior, it clearly comes naturally to him and feels very genuine. This was one of such occasions. The walk to Bowa is ~6k away and takes exactly an hour. Apart from the usual greetings to those on the road, and a short conversation with his brothers whom we meet along the way, we barely speek.
As we come into Bowa we walk through the open space of the football pitch and then past the open windows of the unusually nice primary school. The children are singing joyously to each other in class. The house of the deceased was shortly downhill from the school, just out of earshot. We quietly addressed others coming to pay their respects and pass a group of women sorting flowers behind a very large stack of harvested maize, the ears of corn still on the stalks. To the left of them is the path that works its way up to the front steps of the house.
It is a small brick house with three front windows that are draped in heavy green cloth to block out the sun. To the right is a large reed fence obscuring the view of the back yard and in front of this several unusually large logs are scattered and smoldering, collectively sending ash and wisps of smoke trailing towards the sky. The front door is open and in the dim light penetrating the foyer I can see several children sitting on the dirt floor, beyond this only darkness. Inside I hear the low murmurs and muted sobbing of several women.
Following Mzikillas lead, we walk 20 meters past the door to a small grove of trees, none of which are much taller than me. There is a clearing that is scattered with freshly felled branches and several benches. Taking a seat near several other village headmen and a few area principles I wait, I watch, and I listen. The women are all behind or inside of the house, their number is a mystery to me – the men all seat themselves separately from them. I can, however, hear them clearly. They alternate between waves of silence and overt incomprehensible wailing, as this is how the women are expected to express their grief.
At this point there are about 20 men gathered. Many of them are in a position of authority – identifiable by a unique hat that very vaguely resembles a miniature turbin. For an hour groups of 2 to 4 men come and go. When they arrive, they sit in the center of the clearing with those already present and the eldest of the newcomers begins a prayer. The prayers seem to be directed to no one in particular, and vary in length and volume.
One prayer in particular stood out to me. Roughly half an hour after arriving the only man I saw leave the house stumbles out and begins to walk towards us. He is wiping the salt and mucous from his face, crying audibly – unusual amongst the men. He is slender and in his late 70’s. Both his hair and goatee are more white than black. In spite of his grief he carries himself with a clear sense of both physical and mental strength that is required of the people that live here. He takes a seat two spaces from me, breaks down, and begins sobbing uncontrollably with his head in his hands. My heart crumbles to pieces for him. Shortly thereafter he gathers himself up and, very composed, offers his own prayer to the group. He wanders off and I do not see him again.
The pastor and a group of about 8 men dressed in black slacks, white shirt and white suit jacket, and black ties come shuffling up the path while singing. The wailing grows louder at their approach, only to die back down once they arriv and the singing ceases. Next, 10 women wearing matching black skirts, white head wraps and white blouses with large flat black and white collars march in song from behind the maize stack. Singing a different hymn, they carry large bouquets of flowers that seem to shift in hue from deep pink to a crimson purple. Collectively, this church group enters and leaves the house in short order and for several minutes one of the men bangs on a loud drum. I believe the purpose is to alert the surrounding hillsides that the ceremony would begin soon.
While our numbers had grown since arriving, they would swell to more than 400 people within the next half hour. The men arrive quietly in small groups as before, all dressed in their best clothes. The women come in waves of 3 to 10. Dressed in chitenges and simple but clean blouses, they all wear head wrappings of various sizes and colors. One or two of the bunch would inevitably be heard sobbing and moaning from a distance, the volume increasing as they near the house. Several carry bowls of food, also wrapped in chitenges, the exact contents hidden as though a secret. Upon entering the house, the loudest of the women collapse on the floor and then shuffle out of sight. As new women enter the front door, others emerge from the back of the house and sit together opposite the men.
While this is ongoing, there are men walking around with notebooks and collection bags. They would take a donation for the family, and then write down how much and who gave so that later it could be read aloud. Certainly an unusual practice by US standards. I donate some money and politely requested that it not be announced.
The pastor started and spoke for about 30 minutes while more donations were collected. He finishes, at which point those who had arrived later rise to condole the family and view the body. Mzikilla directs us to leave and as we near the school we could hear the whole collective of women howling their grief in unison.
The hour long walk back to Thazima remains quiet, but more of Mzikillas jovial nature shows through. We jok a bit and he educates me on some trees; the drop in levity reminded me that death is much more a part of life here that we seem to be used to in the states. Unfortunately I strongly doubt that this will be the last funeral I attend in Malawi.
