Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
I wonder what he’s doing right now? Well, really, I know. He’s sleeping as where he lives it’s now night-time. Has probably drunk a few palm wines or some other local hooch . Why the alcohol? There’s been a death in the family. When a family member dies, usually there is a substantial wake. A reason to break out, indulge, have a huge piss-up and mourn his passing. Distant and not-so-distant family emerge from the bush and it’s Gil’s job to feed and accommodate them all. Fourth cousins thrice removed come to the family compound to acknowledge the passing of a distant uncle not seen by some for twenty years, where they sit under the mango trees, drink, eat, doze and catch up on the family micro-news. Women, babies, children, men young and old, never less than thirty at any one time. It’s his uncle, the chief of their encampement who has died after all so charcoal fires are lit, chickens killed and cooked, rice by the sackload bought from the market to feed the unending procession who arrive over the next week or two.
How did they know he’d died? It’s bush telegraph at its finest. Nothing happens in the smallest village without relatives in the city 700 kms away being aware within days of its occurrence. That, and the ubiquitous mobile phone that has revolutionised African bush communication. Not uncommon for one person to be carrying three or four, each one with a different service provider, in the event of the frequent failure of one of them.
This also is not the only funeral for the departed. This is merely “le petit funerale” – the village funeral. The “grande funerale” will be in two month’s time down in the city. That will be an even grander, boozier affair. Men wearing their impressive tribal garments, women with exquisitely braided hair and tight alluring national costumes. A competition for each to show the others how beautiful they are, how regal they look, how well off they have become. I suppose this is the equivalent to wearing Sunday Best for us. How important it is to look good. But also to show respect for the occasion.
Last but not least is the music. Wherever it is, whatever the occasion, always music. The thump, thump, thumpthumpthump of West Africa. Alpha Blondy reggae, the raw passion of Les Garagistes. Music blaring from massive loud speakers positioned for maximum effect, the bass vibrating to the very bone marrow. From early morning to early next morning, stopping only when intoxicated exhaustion has forced the last reveller to take rest.
I remember one time a funeral of a policeman being held in the street where I was living. A raucous affair but the music and noise failed to keep me awake. Then at midnight I was jolted from my slumber by the sound of fireworks in the street. Bang, bang, bang! Crack, crack and crack! I rolled over and nudged my man. “God what a bloody noise!” He patted my shoulder reassuringly and whispered “Reste tranquille, ma cherie. Seulement fusille.” What?? Bloody guns??? They’re shooting their guns into the air! Sweet Jesus, what next?? The ensuing dark hours were spent with me lying rigid in bed, waiting for a barrage of drunken coppers to crash through the door, while my protector snored on serenely.
However, this is the way of farewelling the dead. Noise, dance, drink, food, family, occasional gunfire; sleep it off and start again next day until such time as money for food and grog has run out and all have left to return to their villages and farming life. A fitting send-off.