The Funeral

The hearse stopped at the front of the porch. People, presumably villagers, came forward to welcome the funeral party. There was a big log fire at the centre of the yard. The four men who’d been sitting around it rose to welcome the deceased and the entourage. The welcoming party sang mournful songs. Those alighting from the bus and the cars wept loudly as they met and embraced their relatives. Thus far, it was typical rural funeral wake: people wailed and consoled each other as the room in which the deceased was to lie in state was prepared. Most men and women knew each other. Greetings were conducted quietly so as not to disturb the mourners who were gripped with emotion.

‘Chemhere … Chemhere start the proceedings,’ came a loud whisper from an elderly man smoking tobacco rolled in newsprint. He glared at the deceased’s nephew who’d been given the dubious responsibility of managing the ceremony: part go-between, part master of ceremonies.

‘Vazukuru! Vazukuru of the deceased! You are required here – quick quick.’ Chemhere’s voice was authoratitive as prompted he addressed the young men who had been told to carry the coffin.

‘We are here.’ A group of young men chorused as they appeared at the porch lit by the headlights of the cars behind the hearse. The noise of mourning subsided. Everybody was attentive. The gathering wanted to follow the proceedings.

‘I beg your pardon, fathers and mothers. I think we have to remind each other that before the box is carried into the house, the fathers or mothers of the deceased should say a few words,’ croaked a small bespectacled man who relied on his walking stick to stress his point. A smell of opaque beer wafted from his pursed mouth.

‘No – no – no! If I remember well those who have to say something according to our customs can only do so once the body is in the house.’ Chemhere corrected the man who stroked his small self-important moustache. The young man strode towards the hearse.

‘In which house is the body being laid – the big house or the small one?’ The owner of this voice spoke from the back.

‘I would like my mother to be laid in this house – on this her last day on earth.’ A mournful voice was heard and people looked in the direction of a fashionable young man wearing a voluminous white shirt and loose low-slung denim trousers. A buyer and seller of electrical equipment, he travelled up and down to South Africa, and knew the value of sharp dressing.

‘But custom dictates that she must be laid in her kitchen, Maikoro, and eh – eh – eh …’ The man shrouded in darkness beyond the reach of the car lights, the invisible adviser, paused to continue… Maikoro was, after all, the deceased’s only son. There was silence for a few moments, then the women started to murmur to each other. They seemed desperate to be heard. They wanted to contribute to the proceedings but it appeared as if they were afraid of their menfolk. The men continued to deliberate amongst themselves, not offering the women a chance to be heard.

‘The kitchen is too small to accommodate all of you.’ Chemhere was conclusive as he turned the handle of the door on the back of the hearse.

‘That’s no excuse. How big are kitchens in this village? Are we not mourning our dead in these small thatched huts?’ The invisible man argued and the mourners seemed to agree with him. Most quietly concurred that most kitchens were not big enough to accommodate many people and yet it was the custom that the dead lay in state in this small round hut. The kitchen hut was where mourners came to pay their last respects. This was how it was done.

‘Let us hear what the elders have to say.’ Chemhere backtracked, his eyes searching for an elderly man sitting on the porch. ‘Tell us what to do, Sekuru Chaitezvi. You have seen it all.’

‘Although I feel I have a contribution to make, I believe that I have no right to say anything before the Gurundoros talk. This homestead is theirs and they are the ones to make the decisions. The woman who lies in the box is their wife. Thank you.’ Chaitezvi spoke with restraint as if, should the situation demand it, he could give a thorough lesson on the dos and don’ts of custom. Muttering and the exchange of suppressed whispers could be heard among the mourners.

‘Gurundoro, my Uncle, we ask you to tell us what to do.’ Chemhere, who was master of ceremonies, sounded impatient.

‘Maikoro, did your mother indicate which house she wanted to lie in when she died because we would also want to respect her wishes.’ Gurundoro, clean-shaven and wearing a dark suit and a broad brimmed hat, was clearly a man about town. The eldest of the Gurundoros of his generation (after the death Maikoro’s father) he bore the weight of family responsibility with pomp and circumstance.

‘No. She said nothing to me. I don’t know if she said anything to my sisters. Did she, Mai Leslie?’ he asked.

‘No. But is mother going to remain in that hearse for the whole night while we argue?’ Mai Leslie sounded angry. A woman in her late thirties, she wore the Catholic church uniform: a blue cloak, covering the neck and shoulders, over a conservative white dress. She held a rosary in her right hand, a thumb and finger on a bead.

‘Who said she’s would have to spend the night in that truck? Be careful what you say in front of us. Don’t rush into things you don’t understand. I am the brother of your father and I do not wish to be led by you, a woman.’ Gurundoro retorted angrily. He removed his hat to expose white hair ruthlessly brushed backwards. His lips twitched in the dim light provided by one remaining vehicle. Other drivers having taken the precaution of conserving their batteries.

‘I am sorry, Gurundoro, our father, we have erred, forgive us. Please lead us forward with the proceedings.’ Maikoro apologised for his sister.

‘I am sorry, Gurundoro.’ Mai Leslie genuflected and clapped her hands in apology while still clutching her rosary.

‘I am here to bury my sister-in-law not to settle scores.

‘Maikoro, I heard you say that you wanted your mother to be laid in there.’ Gurundoro pointed with his hat to the door of the big house. ‘Your wish is granted.’ He staggered a little as he gave way to the vazukuru who hastened to bring down the casket. The invisible man invisibly shook his head and walked away followed by the bespectacled man with the beery breath. The religious women drew back and started to sing a religious song accompanied by a drum that pounded slowly and religiously.

Small baskets and vases of flowers were unloaded. A big white casket with big golden handles was heaved out. The young male vazukuru of the deceased were the pall bearers. They carried the casket to the door. Two men entered the house to receive it from within but the casket was broader than the width of the door.

‘The box cannot pass through, Gurundoro.’ Chemhere was calm. ‘Place the box down, away from the door. It is heavy.’ The younger man treated his uncle with circumspection.

‘Ah! What’s that, eh?’ Gurundoro did not expect anyone to answer him. He walked to the door, studied it, and then gazed at the casket and strode into the house. ‘What do we do now?’ He slapped his leg several times with a folded newspaper. The women stopped singing and began to mutter amongst themselves.

‘She does not want to lie in that house.’

‘She wants to lie in her kitchen, in the small round house.’

‘Somebody told us so,’ a woman said under the cover of darkness, and this sentence was passed from woman to woman as if the deceased had imparted valuable information to them before she died. They were fearful.

‘Gurundoro, uncle, when we bought this casket we asked the undertaker if, given its size, it would pass through standard door frames and he assured us that it would. He even carried it through their doors, which are, I presume, the same as these ones.’

‘My God.’ Maikoro put his head in his hands.

Word spread to the men who still sat around the fire and they came hurrying forward as if macho prowess was all that was needed to make the casket pass through the door.

‘We can only do one thing – break the door down,’ Gurundoro declared without consulting the men who had gathered in the room in which the deceased was going to lie. The room had already been lit with several candles placed on small plates around the walls. Gurundoro removed his hat.

‘How about tilting the box to one side?’ An excited voice suggested from the darkness outside.

‘No, we are not going to tilt my sister-in-law, the wife of my brother! What an idea! As if there were no other way of getting this box through this door.’ Gurundoro spoke impatiently.

The invisible man became visible. He was standing in the lone light of the car. His scant beard and large nose could be seen by all. He stood in full view as if he wanted to address the mourners.

‘Let the box through the window.’ Another voice called out excitedly. The mourners chuckled. Beside the door was a large window without burglar bars. It seemed at a glance as though the casket would slide through it easily.

About the Author

The late Julius Chingono, who was born on a commercial farm in 1946, worked for most of his life on the mines. As a poet, he has had his work published in several anthologies of Shona poetry including Nhetembo, Mabvumira eNhetembo and Gwenyambira between 1968 and 1980. His only novel, Chipo Changu was published in 1978 and an award-winning play, Ruvimbo, was published in 1980. His poetry in English has also been published in several South African and Zimbabwean anthologies: Flags of Love (Mireza yerudo) (1983) and Flag of Rags (1996) and Intwasa Poetry (2008). He has a short story in each of the collections Writing Still (2003) and Writing Now (2005) and Long Time Coming: Short Writings from Zimbabwe (2008). Weaver Press published his own collection of short stories, Not Another Day in 2006.