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This blog started as a way of keeping friends up-to-date with Zambian life but it now also helps generate money for the poor here in Chikuni. If you like what you read please click on an ad to help the people of Chikuni.

Wednesday 19 January 2011

A Death

Smoke drifts from the wood stoked fires between my vantage point and the group of women, some chanting, some crying out, and some openly weeping. Shelia and Chritine, two of the Mukunzubo girlsThere is a light drizzle reminiscent of the sort of soft rain Ireland (or Seattle apparently) often experiences. It feels very fitting for the sombre occasion. Thin stray dogs with protruding ribcages are shoed away from the food cooking for the assembled people. The sound of haunting singing heralds the arrival of new mourners from the surrounding bush, the women calling out for the soul of a dead girl, calling to her and with each new arrival, making the skin on my back shiver a little more. I stand on the edge of the family compound with a couple of Mukunzubu girls. We are at the funeral of another little Mukunzubu girl who had just started grade 8 (her first year in high school).

Three days earlier, on Thursday evening, she fainted and became unconscious at her home in one of the rural villages in the Chikuni parish. Her family put her in the cow driven cart and travelled for over ninety minutes to reach the Chikuni Mission Hospital. What happened next, I still cannot understand, nor do I want to. The clinical doctor, the only doctor, had already retired for the night and refused to leave his onsite residence and attend to the little girl. By the time Mabel, Kay and I reached the hospital at 21:30 the little girl had died. The on-duty nurse had to break the rules and put her in the mortuary despite the doctor not pronouncing her officially dead. I will never forget the sound of the song the family sang as they left the hospital to return home, in the dark, the rain and the misery, having travelled all that way for nothing. We were there at the request of Yvonne, the director of Mukunzubu, the Tonga cultural centre here in Chikuni. Mukunzubu acts as a go-between between the local people and the various facilities in Chikuni. For this reason, Yvonne is often called upon, especially in this case because the little girl was a former dancer and so the family had called her for help.

When the girls’ body finally arrived for the funeral at her home, things really kicked off. The weeping, howling, chanting and misery ratcheted up to its climax. People moved towards the car and everywhere women wailed and babies cried. The singing momentarily died or perhaps was just drowned out by the sobbing mass. One woman fainted and had to be dragged to the side to let the plain navy blue coffin pass by and reach the table that had been put out for it. I didn’t even know the girl and yet tears started to flood my eyes and I had to fight hard to keep them back. The sadness was all engrossing; I have experienced many distressing times in my life but rarely have I seen such an outpouring of emotion. People flooded in under the tarpaulin after the coffin and the few Mukunzubu girls did a ceremonial dance around it. The mass was of course in Tonga but I understood most of it due to the structure of mass. During the homily though I took the opportunity to write in my diary, as I had no idea what the priest was saying.

At some point between the coffin being placed under the tarpaulin and the end of the mass, a hatch at the head of the coffin was opened so that people could see the girl. When the mass was finished, the congregation filled by the coffin to pay their respects. Some just walked past, heads bowed; some buckled and fell to the ground; most just cried. After they passed the coffin, they headed southeast of the compound to the gravesite. Once everyone who wanted to pay their respects had done so, the coffin was nailed shut and carried behind the mass of people with the Mukunzubu girls again performing a dance just behind the coffin. Finally I left my spot on the edge of the compound and slowly followed the entire crowd. Along the way I passed people lying facedown or kneeling in the long grass, sobbing and refusing to be consoled by the people who had stopped to help. I kept my eyes low to the ground, feeling distinctly out of place. There was another shorter service at the graveside but the rain turned foul and came down in great sheets to soak the people gathered around. Occasionally someone was ejected from the crowd, like a blob of hot wax from the bottom of a lava lamp. They came weeping and crying out once more, for the injustice against this little girl. The coffin went in the ground and people took turns heaping the soil in and stamping it down with tree limbs. A few different people said some words. Finally the rain stopped, the speeches came to an end and Fr. Kelly gave the final prayer. People dispersed, some going home, some headed back to the family compound. The little girl was left alone, to fulfil the cycle; dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

I returned to the compound where the Mukunzubu girls performed the last dances for that day. They danced under the tarpaulin and into the little hut where I assume the girl and her family stayed. I suppose it was a sort of exorcism of the girls’ spirit. I was given a prime seat right next to the priest and we were served first while I enjoyed the dance and music. It was good to be able to smile again and try to forget the sadness we had all just come through. Village chicken is tough as rubber and I wasn’t entirely sure my teeth were up to the challenge. I managed though and both the chicken and shema were very welcome.
Eventually Fr. Kelly, 5 of the Mukunzubu girls and myself said our goodbyes and loaded ourselves into and onto the 4x4 and headed off to Chiyobola were the orphan administrators were hard at work. A little bit of fun after the funeralFr. Kelly is now the priest responsible for the orphans schooling project and I am responsible for the new software they are using so our presence was required there. I am glad to have seen a traditional Tonga funeral, it has helped to both contrast and complement the Tonga wedding back in early December. I just wish the doctor could have at least seen the girl. Doctors are in such short supply here, it saddens me that there is nothing to be done…

Monday 10 January 2011

The Curious Incident of the Sound in the Night

Have you ever heard the sound of a knife being sharpened? Shhhht, Shhhht, Shhhht. One of the people living with AIDS at ChoompaThis is the sound that woke me up at 3.40 Wednesday morning. My over-active imagination went into overdrive and I sat up in bed for a few moments, imaging the murderer outside my window. My bedroom window is always open but the mosquito screen is tied down (after having had both a towel and the curtain disappear back in December after somebody raised the screen and grabbed both). Now a mosquito net is an odd thing, there is a wonderful sense of security from inside it, so I was very reluctant to leave it. So I switched on the torch (thanks Zoe) and shone the light around the room. OK, it’s definitely not in my room and there definitely isn’t anything coming through the window but it DEFINITELY is coming from just outside my window. I thought to myself, “do I really want to find out what’s making that noise or do I just want to go back to sleep?” I did in fact lie back down, for about 10 seconds until I realised that no, I couldn’t just stay there and ignore it. So I got out and turned on the bedroom light; that ought to scare them away… Moments later I heard shhht, shhhhht. Like the idiot girl in any scary movie, I went to investigate the noise outside. I gingerly lifted the curtain and shone the torch outside. Nothing! No face, no knife, just darkness. But still I hear the shhhhht noise. I shone the torch downwards and saw, to my amusement and annoyance, the biggest, ugliest, nosiest snail I have ever seen. Yes, a snail managed to wake me up at 3 in the morning! The sound was it moving along the metal runner for the part of my window that opens out. I was not impressed! I promptly went back to bed where I wished a hundred Frenchmen upon the bastard…

I also saw my first snake this week. The bastardIt was only a baby though, no more than 20cm in length and green in colour. Annoyingly, my camera batteries died before I could get a picture. It’s interesting though that they are the one thing I am rather afraid of here. I am still in shorts and sandals most days and so walking home in the dark, with tall grass on either side of me is an ‘interesting’ experience. As the rains continue, everything is growing rapidly and so the verges of the paths are encroaching more and more. In a way, I curse spending Christmas day with a doctor and nurse because they started talking about all the amputations they have seen/done as a result of snake bites (forget anti-venom!) which of course is what goes merrily though my head as I stomp along the paths in the dark. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the walk and it’s well worth it for the spectacular stars overhead. Indeed, the night sky is something I am really enjoying. Most nights it’s either full of stars or lightning; both of which I love to watch. I just have to keep a weary eye on the ground, an ear open for rustling in the grass, a spring in my step and a prayer on my breath.

Til next time,
A mango-stuffed David