Tero Buru

I was roused from my nap by the sound of people shouting and screaming. Sitting up in the back seat of the car, I looked outside the window. I was met with the sight of men leading bulls, brandishing spears, branches, and sticks. Women danced and threw their hands in the air; the children mostly ran around but joined in the singing and stamping of feet. The window was rolled halfway down, and I could feel the air thick and heavy. The voices rose in wails, heavy with pain that united everyone. Every now and then, the women’s ululations swelled and then turned into sorrowful singing.

This was tero buru  (sending away the dust) - the customary Luo rite that often accompanied a funeral procession. It was meant to guard against the evil spirits that are associated with death. Their voices were loud and strong, but would get emotional as they wailed and mourned, singing praises and praying to the gods. My mother sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead with tears silently streaming down her face. My uncle was driving; his eyes fixed on a spot on the minibus in front of him. The five of us were crammed into the back seat of my uncle’s Datsun. It was a tight fit, but my mother had wanted us all together for the drive to Gogo.

My father’s body lay in a coffin that sat atop the minibus that was ahead of us. The mourners seemed respectful, touching the vehicles gently as they sang the dirges and danced up a storm. We were now moving at a slow pace, the mourners careful not to get in front of the moving vehicles as they continued with this song and dance. I got a glimpse at some of the shops that we drove by and was able to figure out that we were still at Kadel. We still had another ten kilometers to go before we got to Gogo.  I was filled with all sorts of emotions, but I couldn’t cry. I kept thinking of how my cousin George had delivered the message of my father's death to us. I was home with my two sisters, my brothers had spent the night at a friend’s house, and my mum had been at the hospital. I had not cried even then. I felt the shock as he uttered the words “your father died,” but that was all I could remember. After my cousin had left, my sister and I decided to keep things normal. This meant cleaning and mopping the house and preparing breakfast. We then woke our third sister up and broke the news to her. Everything after that was a blur until we started receiving visitors that evening.

“Look at all the bulls!” exclaimed my youngest brother.  I looked outside again. I felt numb. How could all these people feel so deeply the pain of my father’s death? Was I wrong for not even crying? Part of me wanted to feel some pain, just so I could cry. My sisters had cried, even my brothers, nine and eleven years old, had shed tears. We sat in silence for the rest of the drive, listening to the sounds of mourning, and the  cleansing ceremony to honor our father.

 We arrived at Gogo as the sun began to paint the skies pink and orange. The leaves on the lemon trees in the compound danced gently in the breeze, as the dust from the dirt road rose and settled around the mourners. As we pulled into the homestead, I noticed that the compound was already full of relatives and friends. Old men rose from their seats, leaning on their canes, women tightening their lesos around their waists. Even the children stood in silence, as if to pay their respects. An old man by the gate was pouring a libation of water and the traditional brew on the ground – an invitation for my father’s spirit to enter his home for the last time. The ululations began anew, echoing over the roofs of the grass-thatched houses in the homestead. The deep, rhythmic chants of mourning went on and on. A few women fainted and fell on the ground. I watched as my aunties and cousins led my mother out of the car. Another woman got us from the back seat and walked us through the crowd into my grandmother’s house. My grandmother was down on her knees; her voice filled with pain and sorrow.

“Wuoda oweya malit yawa” – my son has left me in pain!

“Wuod mama, why have you left me so soon? Who will call me ‘mother’ with such love?”

“Son of Got Oyada, who will bring food to this house now?”

She did not seem to notice us as we were ushered out into the simba behind her house. The simba was filled with smoke from the open wood fire, and smells from the pots that were on the fire. A lady that I did not recognize sat us down on stools after we washed our hands. The fire crackled softly beneath the pot, and as she lifted the lid, I could smell my grandmother's peanut stew that she always served when we visited. The lady deftly picked up five metal plates, dented and shiny from years of use. She ladled out the stew in generous scoops  and then added a peeled sweet potato to each plate. But as comforting as the aroma was, I could not eat. I looked around at my siblings, and they all seemed overwhelmed. I  struggled to balance the hot metal plate of food in my lap, not hungry at all. I watched my older sister break her sweet potato on her plate and then mix it into her peanut stew. She didn’t eat any of it.

When it was apparent that we were not going to eat, the lady walked us back into my grandmother’s main house. My mother and grandmother were sitting together, heads bowed as if in prayer. My mother’s soft hands covered by my grandmothers gnarly hands with dirt under her fingernails. They looked up silently as we walked in. My grandmother greeted us by calling us one by one, by the names that she used to praise each one of us.

“Got Oyada,” she started with my brother who had been named after her late husband. When she got to me, she said softly and sadly “Jumapili Chachni.”  On any other day, she would say this with a smile on her face, as she moved her feet and held out her hands in invitation for me to dance with her. This was usually accompanied by the two of us dancing vigorously to her singing for a few minutes before she collapsed onto a chair, cackling with laughter, her eyes shining bright with humor.  But today was different, there was no smile, no dancing feet, and no outstretched hands. Today she was mourning her son.

And still, I couldn’t cry.