Funeral Time

I have been to three funerals in my lifetime. The first one was in 2008, and it was my swim coach. The second was earlier this year, my grandmother. The third was two days ago, and it was my supervisor's mother. She was 79 years old.

When first coming to Kenya, I was excited at the prospect of immersing myself in an entirely unknown culture, including the ceremonies and rituals. Funerals and weddings were definitely on the check list. And I have to admit (as selfish as it sounds), I was excited at the prospect of experiencing one so soon.

Her name was Elina, and she passed away on Tuesday of last week. Beginning that day (30th August) until Saturday, 4th September, everything seemed to come to a standstill in the town. Though I could not attend all those days, I definitely got the flavor of a Kenyan funeral. Crowds of people made themselves at home at my supervisors place as the women cooked each meal for the multitudes and the men talked in circles of politics, family life, issues of water, or whatever else they cared to discuss. Each night had some type of swahili worship music piped through a speaker, and some type of segregated dancing. The men danced in their own area while the women occupied an entirely different area.

The guests would stay all day, and many would sleep on the ground at night for every night, continuing the festivities when they woke the following morning. The attendance was exceptional. I believe the combination of school break, no work to do in the farms, and the prestige of my supervisor (he is the area's councilor, which is a government official of some type) made for a great turnout.

The structure of the funeral was as follows: Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all were hangout/gathering days. Friday was the church service, and Saturday was the burial ceremony. The Friday service consisted of worship songs, a “short” sermon, and a walk-around the casket. It all lasted about 3 hours. Interestingly enough, just as the service finished it began raining harder than I have ever seen rain come. We were all trapped in the church for a good 20 minutes as the precious drops of water poured out extravagantly on the parched land.

The burial ceremony did not lack any flare. The women pulled out all the stops: beautiful hair, matching ceremonial dresses and some even had make-up on. The men dressed business casual.

The casket was ornately adorned: a thin wooden box with a red velvet outer layer and white velvet crosses on the top and front. Beautiful flower bouquets sat on top of the casket, as well as a large framed picture of the beloved grandma. Women were sobbing and making a huge fuss- no doubt generally saddened by their loss, but seemingly playing up the act as if to show everyone else how much they cared. One old lady even fell to the ground and lay sobbing for a good two minutes, all the while lying on freshly cut, jagged shrubbery and rocks. The men did not cry, and I learned later that it is only appropriate for women to show affection.

During the ceremony, the large, leafless tree nearby chirped wildly as small, yellow-breasted birds made tiny nests in the branches. The downpour from the day before must have signaled to the birds that it was time to lay their eggs. I counted 17 new nests, and many more birds. I keep forgetting it is winter here, and spring is soon to come.

A quick side note: As women passed the casket and saw the face of their friend or mother, they would cry out to God or to her, tearfully screaming words in Kiswahili. This reminded me clearly of my own Grandmother's funeral, when my mother wept bitterly and spoke desperately in Korean to my grandmother at the ceremony. It was all I could do to hold back my own tears from that memory, so as not to appear like I was crying over the current situation- the grandmother I had hardly known.

After the 4 hours of praying, weeping, and picture taking, the burial began. After they placed the casket in a cement-like box, they covered it in wooden planks and again covered it in wet cement. Flowers were placed on the grave marker (which was essentially a huge, casket-like stone that was built on top) and the festivities again continued deep into the night.

The ordeal left me exhausted, and I must admit I was a little bit disappointed that the dancing was not traditional in any way (it actually reminded me of a junior high dance, with the men and women separated). Still, I experienced a great deal of Kenyan culture in these few days. Later that Saturday, A Kenyan man asked me about my impressions of the whole ceremony. I told him that I thought it was beautiful to see so many people attend, and that these people, though they are financially poor, have wealth where it really counts.