The Burial of Abigail Chiroto

It was a very different funeral from that of  assassinated activist, Tonderai Ndira, held at the same cemetery last month. Perhaps it was the frantic messages beforehand that this wasn’t to be a ‘political’ funeral. Perhaps it was the zanu-pf T-shirts and bandanas worn by some of the mourners. But this was no burial of a hero of the struggle. More the furtive interment of a body by people who were somehow embarrassed by the whole matter. There is a palpable hostility towards the few democracy comrades who attend.
 

It was explained to me… the Mayor’s wife’s family are solid zanu-pf, the father a war vet. The Mayor himself is related to Joram Gumbo. It becomes clear that this most uncivil conflict is a ‘civil’ war, one that destroys families, divides brothers, children.As did the brutal war of liberation and later Gukuruhundi, the current crisis is ripping apart our social fabric. Not just splitting families but actually destroying the norms and conventions that sustain any community. We are only one of four funerals going on simultaneously and adjacently, mourners intermingled. The priest has to wait for his colleague to finish next door before commencing but his words are drowned out by the singers around the neighbouring grave. Since I was here three weeks ago, perhaps 50 or 60 grave sites are now occupied, the rich red earth fresh and exposed to the weak wintry sun. The graves are constructed with tin or concrete sheets over the coffin then, for those who can afford it, a slab of concrete is poured. All to deter the thieves who will disinter the graves at night to re-sell the coffins. Such is the degradation of our society caused by mugabe and his ‘liberators’.
    
No three days of mourning  kumusha, no food shared with the neighbours and colleagues of the deceased. Her house had been burnt to the ground and those who gathered by the ruins were chased away by the police. Only at her father’s house in Chitungwiza were people allowed to gather, even then democratic comrades were not welcome. No visit by the MDC president to convey condolences. No convoy from the home to the cemetery. Not even Emmanuel Chiroto can attend the burial of his wife, unsure that he will be protected from the regime’s thugs even at his wife’s funeral.
 
I understand these things but the sight of the weeping woman in the bright green T-shirt with the dictator calling for 100% liberation is so utterly offensive that I cannot remain. A friend agrees but, braver than me, grumbles in a loud voice. Little notice is taken. I leave before the ceremony is over.