Under a chestnut had dozens of men sitting on the floor. Swirled all under the protection of the shade of that tree. It was six in the morning and the sun was beginning to hit. That was my first image. Then I realized that the other side, opposite, dozens of women were also lying or sitting on the sand. Always looking for the profile of a shadow in which protected. In the center, had six chairs and a few men sitting on them. Behind them a small reed hut in which I sensed was the late. All was silent.
Behind them a small reed hut in which I sensed was the late. All was silent
Was at the funeral of Mrs. Enora, one woman who made her life more than living alone marked their times. She was a co-worker who had died without us explain his ailment. I guess life had died of foreshortened as it did just two days before her husband. I was looking restless with his granddaughter look, a little kid you've always joked at the hotel and that was his grandmother, the woman who cared for her, to wherever she was going. I saw in the distance, on the arms of another woman who was not his mother, in tears.
Upon entering a man stood up and offered me a chair. I was representing the hotel, I had paid the food and burial expenses. I was surprised, there were dozens of people lying on the floor and I, the least likely knew the deceased, was worthy of a chair. First I refused but they insisted and decided to sit. Some time ago I realized that in Africa there are formalities to comply despite not sharing.
I sat there for more than 30 minutes listening to that thunderous silence. Just moved the bodies of some people left unprotected in the coveted shade. A man stood up and offered me to take my chair under the protection of the branches of a tree. I thanked him for the gesture and indicated it was fine. That was when five women got up and slowly introduced into the hut. Suddenly began to sing. They were church songs, in xitswa, I explained that after saying "go with God, God is waiting for you ". They were part of the African song, a lament, you shudder when you hear. The sound that came out of that house was a cry in word. They spent the next few minutes, I would say more than 30, with the sound that came from that room cane and silence, outside there was only silence. Shuddered. Really, however much I tried, can not describe the time.
They were part of the African song, a lament, you shudder when you hear
Suddenly, the priest stood up and with it the men, among whom was the father of the deceased, like me who deserved a chair. Four chairs placed parallel to pose the tree. People stood up and placed around them. I turned my head and saw him go to the granddaughter of Mrs. Enora crying in the arms of the woman. They took her away. I made a gesture but I saw. Finally the hut came the coffin that made the evening before their peers at our lodge. (It was one of the things that the family asked us with food to feed during the days of the funeral to the hundreds of people who passed through there. I remember Jeremiah, our driver, come and tell me: "We have called each of Doña Enora, There are many people there and have not eaten. They are hungry. I went out to look for food with him and to deliver).
Leaving the coffin I first heard some cries from the area of ??women. I never saw a tear to any man. After finishing the prayer priest carried the coffin and put him in one of our cars where most people would. Five women were torn voice. The car started and shut down their throats engine sound. That pick-up moving slowly in the same voice crying in her womb. The rest went to the cemetery on foot.
Some men then introduced the bags Enora Doña belongings in the tomb
The cemetery was a small plateau with mounds of sand and dried flowers. They loaded the coffin into the hole dug in the ground and. A white sheet covered the tree. Between two men entered the coffin on the ground. The women sang and now heard moans, cries, crying and always, behind, songs in xitswa of hello and goodbye to the new life. Some men then introduced the bags Enora Doña belongings in the tomb. I found it amazing that in a place where all the dead lack bury them with their belongings. "Family First is offered and what nobody wants is her and God", I explained a colleague. There are more tears, more songs, more sadness.
When the coffin is in the bottom two men begin to cover it with sand. The blades are slow. Everyone helps. Approaching, pick up a handful of dirt and throw it on the tree. They take turns in strokes, I understand that there is a generic commitment last goodbye. Then, when the mound is already done is another man with a bottle of water that begins to spread over the grave. Again all that sand solidificare help, to make mud. Finally, put some fresh flowers and petals on the wet sand. Slowly and quietly again we return home of the deceased.
Last night I wrote a few words to Mrs. Enora to read aloud a colleague. Everybody looks at me
Arriving, This time they have reserved the biggest and most important chair for me. I sit in front of the whole world. Last night I wrote a few words to Mrs. Enora to read aloud a colleague. Everybody looks at me. Finish our discourse, are grateful for this gesture shy of Mozambicans. A parish priest heaves and explained in xitswa my words. I talked less than a minute, but speech more than ten. Everyone is proud that Doña Enora worked in a company and the company is there this. "If you had not come in the name of the hotel would have been a disgrace to the family", I said the cook. "Also the pastor explained that Doña Enora is with God and that there is no blame. Here in Mozambique's funerals end badly because a family blames the other of witchcraft and killing his aide ", Ball tells me. "Sometimes they end up with machetes if they don't calm down".
Finish the speech. I give money for bread and other purchases. Some people take two days there and still spend three or four more watching the dead. There family who comes from afar and you have to wait. I say goodbye to the people, I climb into my car and I remember that song that came out of the bowels of that hut as a lament. Rest in peace Mrs. Enora.
PD. The photo is part of a campaign by Oxfam. I do not wear a burial chamber.
