A funeral

It was Monday midnight when I was startled into wakefulness by anguished crying. The next morning I found out what had happened. Our next door neighbour, Mwasile, together with a girl that they looked after, had been killed in a tragic road accident involving an oil tanker. One of their children, Ago, was severely burned, as was the driver. It was hard to take in. Although I’m not close to the family, I have lived next-door to them for about seven years, we exchange pleasantries and their children have played in our home. I didn’t know what to do. I was upset, but I didn’t know what the culturally appropriate way to respond was. Should I go and offer my condolences straight away? Was it okay to keep on working or should I be sitting there with the family and acquaintances who I knew would soon start to gather?

A photo from a happier day. Our house is the
one on the left, with my car in front, and
Mwasile's house is the one on the right.

I should briefly explain my living situation, so that the rest of my account makes sense. I live on the compound of a Moravian church – the compound contains not just the church, but also offices, a guest house and several houses. My house is behind the church, between two other houses, both occupied by pastors with important positions within the Moravian church for the Mbeya region. It is one of these pastors who was killed. It is the other who told me the shocking news. I normally live with another British lady, Hazel, but she had had to leave the country a few weeks earlier as her work permit had expired.

So when my neighbour told me the news, I asked him what I should do. He said I could go to the office as normal that day, but that I should be around for the funeral service which would take place on Wednesday or Thursday. Unfortunately, I wasn’t supposed to be going to the office as my work permit had expired, but I quickly realised I would not be able to get anything done if I stayed at home. Firstly, of course, I was upset by what had happened, but also wailing kept coming from my neighbour’s house as each new visitor brought on a fresh wave of grief, and that made it even worse. So I headed to the office for the day, staying in my friend’s flat on the office compound. While there, I sought the advice of a colleague about what I should do. She said it was important that I went to offer my condolences – in fact, she said I should have gone straight away. So then I was not only upset about what had happened but also worried that I had done the wrong thing and would have offended my neighbour. This feeling of being culturally very out of place and not sure how to behave stayed with me throughout the week as events unfolded. Funerals here are so very different from funerals in England. While we Brits want to give people space to grieve in private, here it’s a public affair with everyone coming together to sit with the bereaved. While we cry quietly, here they express their grief loudly. While our funerals take place some time after the death, but are then over in a few hours, here the funeral service and burial will take place within a day or two (as soon as family members can be there) and the gathering of the bereaved can last for days or even weeks. I knew all of this, but I still didn’t know how I personally was expected to react in the midst of it, and was constantly worried that I would do or say the wrong thing. Thankfully, Tanzanians are very gracious, recognising that ‘visitors’ like myself don’t always know the right way to behave.

When I returned home that Tuesday evening, I went straight to Mwasile’s home. I was relieved to find my other neighbours there, including Bahati, the mother, who is a lovely lady that I feel very comfortable with. I was briefly introduced to the gathering and carefully stepped across the room to embrace Mwasile’s wife. The room had been emptied of furniture and mats laid on the floor where about 40 ladies sat, legs stretched out in front of them in the usual way here, sitting shoulder to shoulder, with barely space to get across the room. After offering my condolences, I returned to a spot near the door where Bahati was sitting, to cry and chat and be silent. As we sat I asked Bahati about funeral customs, including when I should give my financial contribution (very important here), and apologised for not visiting in the morning. Thankfully she reassured me that it was fine that I didn’t go as everyone was in shock; it wouldn’t have been expected. More crying followed the appearance of Mwasile’s two oldest children, who had just arrived from Dar es Salaam, where they are both studying to become doctors. How will Mwasile’s wife fund their education now without Mwasile’s income, for she is just a farmer? After about an hour I asked Bahati if it was okay to take my leave, and she assured me it was, so I stepped out and returned to my house.

I was downcast but also stressed by being located in the middle of all that was going on. On one side of my house, in Bahati’s yard, they were cooking. Several iron frames had been set up, with big saucepans on top and wood burning underneath, to cook food for the hundreds of guests that would come over the coming days. An efficient team of women were at work, chopping cabbages, cooking rice, and doing everything else that was needed to keep everyone well fed. Unfortunately all this cooking was taking place right outside my bedroom window and the smoke seeped into my room, leaving it slightly hazy, and there was the constant sound of chatter as the ladies worked. I realised I wouldn’t be able to sleep well there, so removed myself to my housemate’s bedroom, which was smoke free.

View from our lounge window, with ladies sitting
on our porch. Gazebos hadn't been set up
at this point.

On the other side of the house people were constantly milling around as they came to just ‘be’ with Mwasile’s family. I kept my curtains shut, but I couldn’t really escape things, as people made themselves comfortable around my house, perched on the cement step that runs around one side and also relaxing on my porch, such that I couldn’t even open the door without first asking them to move! It was like this all day on Wednesday, with the addition of music. Sometimes a funeral feels barely distinguishable from a party, as people who haven’t seen each other for a long time enjoy meeting again and as what to me seems very upbeat music is broadcast loudly for all to hear. People continued to come and go, relaxing on the sofas outside (the ones that had been removed from the house to make space for all the ladies to sit on the floor) or on the many plastic chairs that had been hired. Gazebo-like shelters had been set up in the space in front of our houses to keep people dry (as it’s rainy season). In the evening, there were live choirs – they sang beautifully, but the drum kit was being played with gusto and the constant thudding went right through me as our houses offer little protection from outdoor sounds.

With Raheli

I slept once again in Hazel’s room, the quietest one in the house as it’s at the back. The next day was the funeral service. I stayed at home, waiting for a sign that the service was about to begin. Apparently there were so many people and cars that the funeral procession from the hospital mortuary was very delayed, and traffic police had to be called on to help. Mwasile was a well known man. My househelp, Raheli, came for the funeral, so I eventually braved the crowds and stepped out of my house to join her. My porch had turned into a feeding station (one of several), with students serving people rice, beans and meat from two massive saucepans. Rice and beans were spilt all over my porch and the flies were having a hay-day. Raheli encouraged me to have some food – eating at a funeral is an important part of attending, it shows you have really participated. So I got a plate from my house (as they’d run out) and ate a pile of rice with my hands.

In front of the church - as the service continued
inside, many stood around outside. You can just
make out  a poster with Mwasile on. It's not
uncommon for people to wear white at a
funeral as you can see many ladies are doing.

Eventually the body arrived – church officials, in their clerical robes, carried the coffin. So sad. Words aren’t enough. His wife and children were supported by others as they struggled to walk in their grief. The church was packed. I stood outside with Raheli and a lady from my office, who had come as a representative of our office. You don’t need to personally know the deceased to attend funerals here. As he was an important church figure, many were there as representatives of their churches or organisations because they relate to the Moravian church in one way or another, without having any personal acquaintance with Mwasile or his family. In front of the church was a table with a photo of Mwasile in a frame of flowers, and some people were wearing T-shirts with his face on and a Scripture verse.

Sheltering from the rain.
Big pots of sliced 
cabbage in the foreground.

It rained. It poured down. People sheltered under the gazebos as the service continued, as there wasn’t enough space for everyone inside the church. Someone who used to work with us as a translator for the Ndali language is now a bishop in the Moravian church, and he gave the sermon. There was a long period of people coming to publicly give their contributions, sharing words of remembrance or comfort to those gathered. As my name was called I also went up to give my contribution (I had no idea what amount was appropriate); thankfully I wasn’t expected to say anything! I left before the end of the service, but it finished not too much later.

On Friday they transported the body to his home village where he would be buried. I didn’t see the funeral procession depart as they left quite early. Over the following days things gradually quietened down. Eventually they moved their cooking station to the other side of our house, just outside my kitchen, so I was able to return to my own bedroom to sleep. Two weeks later there are still a few more people around than usual, but I think they are probably close family, and the sofas are still outside! Ago is still in hospital, but sadly the driver of their car, who was also severely burned, passed away over the weekend. I pray daily and hope with all my heart that there won’t be another funeral – may God spare the family grief upon grief by restoring Ago.