TILL WE MEET AGAIN.

Back in the days, while I was still in high school, there was a certain hymn we used to like singing with a lot of fervor. Especially while going for mid-term or long holidays while taking a break from schoolwork.

‘God be with you till we meet again’ it was. Emphasis was placed on this verse with a series of ‘Hey, hey!’ However, it was an emotionless song. Who even cared singing, especially in an all-boys school? But when it came to this hymn specially reserved for such occasions, shouts were paramount. Ideally, I don’t remember singing it during the normal parade days when we sung the hymns. Our new principal while a sophomore forced us to make use of 'Golden Bells', which used to be on the dark corners of the metal box aiding in gaining rust during our 'mono' years in high school.

While reminiscing about this song, a certain hymn also came to my mind. ‘In the sweet by and by.’ It’s dirgic. When I usually sing it during solemn times, I normally sniffle when emotions take the better of me. Thank goodness they never result into sinuses. I  like the refrain. It makes me realize that we are on a succinct sojourn here on earth as much as it is a succor. After singing it, then I become touched for a short moment, then I swing back to reality. That I quickly forget is not a lie. But here are the lyrics to the refrain.

In the sweet by and by,
We shall  meet on that beautiful  shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall  meet on that beautiful  shore.

Over the weekend, I went for the interment ceremony of my late uncle Barry. The one I had a half a day with at KNH. He had finally succumbed after being bravely borne to some complications that probably led to his untimely demise. However, for a man that strong, he remained coherent and clear in his voice till the last minutes when he went to the other side of life.

Sometimes I usually imagine how it would be life after death. However, I would never write my own obituary. As a matter of fact, if I write it and God-Forbid something ill happened to me, my cadaver will be declared ceremonially unclean. Anyway that is something none wants. We all want to remain alive. Forever, which is impossible. Even when we really know that we are on the brink of kicking the bucket, we just want a reminder that we can still breathe for the next minute and it should be compounded.

My family does not believe in Langata cemetery. When one finally succumbs, he is taken back home so that we can honourably give him a decent send-off. Because it’s a process, plans have to be made and funds raised. That means that it takes time before the actual ceremony takes place.

We met on several occasions to organize for the fundraising. Usually, to cut on costs, we normally met in a city restaurant and bought drinks and snacks as we planned on how to approach the issue. The major fundraising was held in a certain social hall where all and sundry were invited to aid in contributing towards the funeral expenses.

Back home, guys believe that certain native singers should be hired to sing as the body is being taken home. Mourners should be fed lest people start talking. Local drinks for guys in the reserve should be bought. Music should be played at least twice; the day before the interment and after interment. Funeral announcement should be made on local radio for all to hear for at least a week. And a lot of other logistics that usually involve expenses.

The journey back to my aboriginal roots usually takes seven hours. However, this time round, we were not travelling back with Uncle Barry. He had been transferred in advance and kept in a morgue in my home town. So we had all the time on our sleeves to travel. Guys were on a road trip. Personal cars, hired cars and I don’t know what, were the means of transport.

All the guys we were travelling with were in between their twenties and early forties. And most never did mind taking ale. So cars were stuffed with ale for consumption during the wake and while journeying. Photos were also taken on the various stoppage points and stories ‘beaten’ while travelling. 

The journey from Nairobi is usually ecstatic while driving back with eccentric people. Even though it was supposed to be a grief-stricken journey, it turned into an enjoyable ride. It being a Friday, cops were strategically positioned within a kilometer in some stretches and that limited the speed in which one could travel. I remember being asked for my DL only once. I misplaced the damn thing a year ago and was lucky to have never been asked until when I had renewed it and only had a paper from e-citizen to display as the license.

Uncle Barry’s body was at a local morgue. Being a tall guy, a lengthy casket had to be found to ensure his body did fit inside. There is a bus named, ‘Jaiko’ which translates to ‘the undertaker’. It normally leaves Nairobi very early to arrive in my hometown in time to enable folks undertake their obligations. Those who normally board it love the fact that it keeps time. However, I am not sure if that’s the real name of the bus or it was just another fabrication by those we were travelling with.

At the morgue, we found out that the number of the male species that were succumbing at an early age was quite exceptional. Ladies who had succumbed were few. Judging by the  pictures of the people whose lives were now no more.

There was quite a stand-off at the entrance of the morgue when we arrived because some people wanted to receive the body of their loved ones before others who had earlier on been cleared. In fact, they wanted to forcibly gain entry inside the morgue to perform the task  of the mortician. Luckily, family members had ensured that the body of Uncle Barry was removed in advance. Therefore, we only saw as guys were struggling to gain entry inside the morgue. Shielding them were sentries who never wanted those rascals who were acting savage to enter inside the morgue.

Apparently the number of ladies who came to accompany their loved ones was also many.

After finalizing on a short prayer ceremony, the body was placed inside the hired hearse and off we set off for my rural home.

Come to think of it, most of us usually travel back home only during such occasions as funerals and Christmas or for remembrance of a departed soul. This is usually an opportune moment for members of our extended family to bond. We spend the better part of our lives living in the city and various towns then end up in a home we never thought we would stay in, the grave. Luckily for Uncle Barry, his insurance had taken care of most of the expenses. But the budget is never enough, so it forces family and friends to chip in to boost the income availed by insurance. Which means I should also join an insurance to ensure I plan for my future whether I kick the bucket or not. It’s crucial.

When I was young, during the journey back home from the morgue, people used to sob uncontrollably and others even fainted just by the view of the body of a loved one. It was the kind of sobbing that was genuine. Nowadays, there are professional mourners. They get hired by those whose loved one is either unknown by the villagers or severed ties with the rural folks. These are people who go to towns and stay for long so that they are forgotten by the folks back at home.

Such people elicit no feelings among those back at home when they demise. Our culture is such that we have to cry while taking the body home. Most ladies are the ones who engage in that. They wail and shout to alert villagers that the body is getting back home. As for men, they also shout carrying twigs or a fly whisk as the hearse’s siren blares. Cars accompanying the hearse also honk loudly and put the car hazard on while being driven at snail pace. Children also are not left out as they come out to witness how the late is being taken back home. The youthful guys carry twigs and run helter skelter chanting 'Jowi'. They are also in charge of carrying the body of the deceased.

When the body is removed from the hearse, it is carried to the homestead where a priest or a local pastor will pray, after the mourners have calmed down. Mark you, the body has to enter the compound using the main entrance, which is cleared in advance if twigs had grown on it. Normally, before the prayer, the young men carrying the body usually run with it shouting heroic words if he is a man for around five minutes in his compound or his father's compound. It’s a ritual that I have no idea about. Incidentally those who carry the coffin are normally inebriated. After the prayers, people will sit and take tea with either ‘mandas or nyoyo’. A goat or sheep called 'chiayo matin' is slaughtered for consumption that day. 

Obviously you will hear latecomers wailing at a distance as they come to confirm that it truly is the body of the deceased.

During the wake, the songs that are usually played are gospel songs. Rarely are candles lit, apart from those who know the meaning of it. A sermon is usually given and people from various homesteads join the family members of the bereaved. If it rains before the burial day, most people say that the deceased is crying. That night is also when the grave is dug, a cow is slaughtered and the food is prepared.

In my rural home, catering is a big business, I even have an uncle who left his job in a hotel to start his own catering business and he has never looked back. From funerals, graduations, birthdays, Christmas, and Easter. He usually has a tight schedule during the weekends and being seasoned in the industry, you need to book him in advance. His clients range from the who is who, and he name drops those big names when I ask him of his latest business.

During the burial day, relatives and friends will come from various places. Those given a chance usually eulogize the deceased of his heroic deeds. A funeral is treated like a wedding in our place. Weddings are the reverse. They involve people going to the church, afterwards, they go for a small meal then the ceremony is over. In our place, funerals are budgeted for. If people never eat, they will annul to having gone to such a ceremony. And most people don't like it when their homestead is talked about illy. I usually wonder why funerals are treated as such. In some cases, there is food reserved for the VIPs and there is another reserved for the villagers, who come en mass especially if the person who died was a prominent name.

After the burial, those who want to leave usually do at their pleasure. One thing is for sure, as long as food is in abundance, people will stay for a while. However, in limited quantities, they will exit the very day. But that night, there is usually music played all night long till the wee hours of the night. Boys normally outnumber girls during such an occasion. It relieves the family members of the grief they have. Long ago, such music used to be played for even a week. Some even involved bringing a local music band to sing for mourners turned revelers. 

Sadly, there are times when such reveling turned disastrous as no one was frisked upon entry. Chances are, you would find a person getting hit on the head with a panga, or an innocent dude whose dancing skills charmed a village beauty being beaten by a bunch of hooligans high on bhang smoked with abandon. Some marauding hooligans also carried whips called 'boka rao' they whipped those who crossed their line. Jik, a local drink is usually consumed in colossal amount and this also triggers the few cases of violence some goons engage in. Luckily, the brutality is usually quelled by those who want to enjoy, but if it gets out of hand, the local chief normally intervenes with his boys. This explains why folks from my tribe love engaging in acts of violence and also love partying like there is no tomorrow.

Let me not forget to mention that the family of the deceased normally gets to be given cows, sheep and goats if the sole bread winner was the person who succumbed. All the remaining animals and foodstuff that were not consumed also become the assets of the deceased’s family members.

While we may not have observed all the rituals during Uncle Barry’s funeral, we did give him a decent send-off. Though it was a short-lived affair as opposed to how it should have been in comparison to the past.

That is why I must conclude by paraphrasing a bible verse.

2nd Timothy 4:7, "You have fought the good fight, you have finished the race, you have kept the faith.”

“God be with you till we meet again.” Uncle Barry.

Hasta La Vista, Baby.

[Picture Source: Pixabay.com]