mazikoni, or the burial

Yesterday morning Hassan, our old research assistant and friend, showed up at our guest house. He chastised us for not looking him up sooner, and reported that Bwana Chai (Mr. Tea), a man Justin once interviewed in '99, passed away. The funeral was that afternoon in Makunduchi, the village we lived in in '99. Did we want to come? At the risk of sounding really cold, we couldn't remember the deceased, but we went so we could attend the Swahili funeral and visit with old friends.

Men are responsible for burials here. Women usher in life in female-only births, and men usher out life. I gathered with the women a few meters away from the burial site. They were all dressed in their village-best, dresses and double kangas (brightly colored and patterned lengths of cloth, wrapped around the body). The women chatted quietly among themselves, waiting for the funeral procession to pass.

Justin and Juma went with the men, where a few men were preparing the body (washing and wrapping it in kangas) inside a house. A wooden stretcher with a box frame, covered in kangas and a green cloth beautifully embroidered in Arabic writing from the Quran, served as the temporary coffin for the procession. Several men carried it out to a grove of banana trees where the deceased would be buried. Men gathered around in a tight knot, and several men helped the body down into the 5-foot grave. A man read the appropriate funeral verses from the Quran, and they covered the body with leaves, then earth.

Near where I was sitting, a woman in a house began to wail and mourn. Others joined in her cries, lending support and encouraging her to let out her grief. The deceased was an old man; I assume it was a widow or daughter mourning him.

Islam permeates life cycle rituals. After a child is born, its father recites a verse of the Quran in its ear, so its first thoughts and voices are of God. Upon death, the Quran is read again, and the body is buried to face Mecca.

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After the funeral, we visited an old friend, Bi Chida (pronounced Bee Cheetah). She's an old woman, with one child and four grandchildren. For some reason, she latched on to me in '99, and we visit her every time we come. Electricity has finally reached Makunduchi, so now she has a TV, a fridge, and lights. Her child must be doing pretty well to support her mother like that. Bi Chida's income is in coconut fiber rope. She buries coconut husks on the beach for a few months to treat them, then digs them up, pounds the sand out of them, separates the fibers, then twists, twists, twists them in her hands to form long ropes. If I remember right, it sells for something like a penny a meter.

We brought Juma's soccer ball, and he played outside the house with the village kids, who were delighted to hear a little white boy chatter away in a foreign language. Juma loved seeing the animals--cows, goats, ducks, chickens, and butterflies--and the plants--banana trees, coconut trees, cassava, corn. We returned to the city in the late afternoon. We'll probably travel up to Pemba (where my internship is) on Thursday.