After the burial, there was the usual scramble for food. There were two lines, going zig zag, one for men and the other for women .
The mourners all wore solemn faces, the kind of faces almost everyone tries to pull up at a funeral. As different as faces you find at weddings. You would be mistaken to think that all those mournful people would wear sacks and mourn their dead relative for eternity.
I could see huge drums which were used as pots over the open fire. These huge pots did not even give the mourners the assurance that the food was enough for everyone.
The fear for most mourners was that the food would not be enough. It is at funerals that the love of meat is usually displayed. At other funerals I have attended before, some relatives are given the task to keep guard over the meat. Usually there is a room where the meat is kept under lock and key. This is to prevent some meat from disappearing mysteriously.
I was also in the queue for food, right at the back as I chatted with some friends and relatives. The sky above Chokodza village was pregnant with rain. The overhanging anvil-shaped cumulonimbus clouds threatened a sudden downpour of rain at any time.
The queue was sluggish. There were a few vehicles and some of the relatives wanted to travel back to Harare straight after the burial.
There was no space in the bus. I had checked with the bus driver and he shook his head from side to side. Those who had eaten their meal scrambled on the bus, afraid that they might lose their seats.
All these actions, the scenes after the burial were a poignant reminder that death is just an event.
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Once one is firmly planted in the ground, life goes on, one is soon forgotten.
Clothes are shared among relatives, the final nail, announcing a finality of one’s departure from this earth. It does not even take long for mourners to forget.
Once you know that we all die, albeit at different stages, try to make peace with God and man. There is no need to make enemies. Death is an equaliser, rich and poor, we all bite the dust. It is only a matter of time.
By the time I had a meal, most of the cars had gone. I decided to travel the next day at first light and catch the early bus.
I sat under a jacaranda tree with one of my nephews, Edmore. He had made Zambia his home. Up to now I don’t really know what he does with his life. I only meet him at funerals occasionally. Apart from that he is a complete mystery.
“ How many children do you now have? “ I asked.
He tilted his head to one side and then laughed.
“ I have eleven children, the last one is two years old,” he said.
I whistled. Soon after that, large oval raindrops fell from the sky.
Lightning flashed and thunder reverberated across the hills. We ran for cover and took shelter in one of the small round-thatched huts. It was full of women who were sitting around a fireplace.
It rained cats and dogs. Heavy rainfall pounded the earth. I was not even sure that the round-thatched hut was safe. The huge jacaranda tree swayed from side to side under the force of the heavy rain which was accompanied by strong winds. Streaks of lightning lit the sky in short intervals. It was like some irregular fireworks.
Edmore looked nervously at me as a bolt of lightning struck the jacaranda tree outside. Some of the women closed their eyes. I knew what most of them were thinking but were afraid to say.
“Is this not a bad omen? Our dead relative is not happy,” said Edmore, my nephew.
Too much superstitious beliefs. The beliefs of my people, ingrained over generations do not leave room for a natural cause of death.
There is always an enemy who is responsible for someone’s death.
It rained incessantly for a long time. Small rivulets of water flooded the homestead.
Most of the overflowing water found their way to Sabi River via tributaries.
I suddenly had memories of my childhood, dangerously playing and dancing in the rain with my friends, sometimes completely naked.
Just as it had started, the rainfall suddenly stopped. There was a sigh of relief all round as all the people had for a brief moment held their hearts in their hands owing to the violent rainfall.
As we came out of the hut, the bus that had departed for the journey to Harare with some of the mourners screeched to a halt in the homestead. It had come back. For what? What was wrong?
Why had it come back with the mourners? For more of this story, follow us next week.
Onie Ndoro
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