sick cycle

In a previous log I mentioned the man with hundreds of goats. Well last Thursday he was found dead near the river surrounded by his cattle. Mr. Mokoena was not only responsible for hundreds of goats, a dozen cattle, and 6 dogs. He was also the father of 8 children, the youngest being 9 years. He was a night watchman at Mannyetha School. He was a husband of over 40 years.

Since moving here I have experienced more death than I ever imagined possible. Nearly half of any given South African community is likely to be at a funeral any given Saturday from 5- 10am. Generally the cause of death is not disclosed. Therefore I am not sure how many people actually die of AIDS.

In the case of Mr. Mokoena, I gather that he had a seizure in the heat of day. Since he passed on a Thursday the family decided to have his funeral the following Saturday so that those who live far could make travel arrangements. The Mokoenas live just across the street from me and one of the daughters, Althida, 15, is a great friend of mine. So upon arriving home last Sunday I immediately wanted to walk over and give her a hug. Luckily I stopped home to drop off my bags. I say luckily because my host father spoke for 15 minutes in Sepedi to Pleasure regarding how I was supposed to act/dress. I only know this because of his vivid body language; he sat on the bench, placed his hands on his locked knees, and hunched over. He speaks English well so I was a bit unnerved that he didn’t address the issues directly with me. When they finished the talk I began speaking to him and asking questions about the proper manner for giving sympathy. He explained that I need to wear a skirt and nice top, upon arriving take a seat and wait for the family members to approach me, and finally I must not speak too much. (Clearly he thinks I often cause too much noise )

With his guidelines in mind I entered into Mokoena’s yard and sat on a bench in the compound, silently. Athlida sat on the stoop, eating. After five minutes Athlida waved me over so I walked up the steps, gave her a hug, and took a seat. We spoke briefly about her feelings but mostly she wanted to avoid the subject. So she took up a commentary on my American friends who visited the previous week. I don’t have any practice in speaking to a child who has lost a parent. I told her that I am all ears whenever she wants to talk. What else can I offer?

Throughout the week village women brought bowls, plates, firewood, water, and food. They cooked all day and stayed up late for many nights. The men sat under trees talking, they brought dirt from the fields to patch the road in front of the house, set up tents, and dug the grave. My host father put up a tin barrier around the corner of the yard so that the men could “pass urine” without having to walk far.

On Friday Mr. Mokoena’s body arrived at the home. They put his coffin in the bedroom he shared with his wife. She had been bound to the bedroom since his death (by tradition). That night a priest and female relatives slept in the room. Around 5:30 the next morning dozens of cars and hundreds of people arrived. There was a service in the family compound, but Pleasure insisted I not intrude. So instead of hearing prayers and memories I could only hear the sorrowful songs from the dirt street. The womens voices are powerful enough to make me cry.

Upon completion of the service there was a procession to the cemetery. The hearse was followed by a van carrying family members which was followed by a crowd of women with head and shoulders covered. The singing continued along the walk with each woman who felt the power choosing the next song. A slow gallop ensued as we made the way to the cemetery. Never have I seen African women walk so quickly. We arrived at the grave site and women stood behind the family. The men stood near the grave. The coffin was set and covered with a traditional blanket, pillow, and flower arrangements. Upon prayer and the lowering of his body his wife, children, and close friends threw dirt over the coffin. Men completed the burial, shoveling the dirt to a heaping mass. The sorrowful songs continued throughout the ceremony.

As we made our way out to the cemetery a drunk man caused a scene by grabbing me and telling me I was going to be his husband- yes husband. Many women came to my rescue and we swiftly walked back to the Mokoena’s home to wash our hands clean of the spirits.

Later that day all the children shaved their heads and Mrs. Mokoena donned the green garments that she will wear for the next six months or so of mourning.