September 16th, 2012
Beauty Dvube was my Gogo, or grandmother. She was my Babe’s mother, which made
her the matriarch of the giant Dube family (I don’t know why her name is
spelled with a v and mine is not).
At the time of her death she left behind 4 living children, 41
grandchildren, 58 great-grand children, and 3 great great-grandchildren. She was 94, amazing right!?! Her homestead is in my community, but
she would come and stay on my homestead every once in awhile when her health
was troubling her. She came to us
about a month ago needing care. In
the end of August she suffered a small stroke leaving one side partially
nonfunctional. Complications of
this eventually lead to her death about two weeks later. She was in the hospital right after the
stroke, but fortunately was released and was able to enjoy her last few days at
her home.
I always liked this Gogo. She was feisty.
The first time I met her she said to me in siSwati that she “liked to
speak English, but knew very little.”
I gave her a smile and said “I like to speak siSwati, but also know very
little.” Our conversation never
circum passed the basic greetings, except for once. I was walking back from the pit latrine one day last summer
and passed Gogo sitting on a grass mat outside. We greeted each other as usual and then with such passion
she proclaimed in English “It’s Hot!” I just cracked up because I totally
didn’t expect such a profound outburst and was overjoyed that this was the one
response in siSwati I had totally mastered: I replied “Yebo Gogo, kuyashisa
kakhulu!” (Yes gogo, it is very hot!”
We both just laughed together after.
As I’ve mentioned before a Swazi funeral is a multi-day
affair. My family spent the entire
week preparing for the two-day event that included a church service, followed
by an all night-vigil, then a morning burial procession. A giant hand crafted stick and tarp
tent had to be constructed, food had to be bought to feed around 200 people,
arrangements for the burial and church services had to be made, and arranging
just how everyone was getting to Gogo’s homestead for the event was a tricky
process. Finally the weekend came
and everyone and everything was set into motion.
I spent all of Saturday evening baking buns for the funeral
guests with bosisi bami (my host sisters). We baked from 5:00pm-10:30pm. Then we got bundled up for the night. It’s raining again, which is great for
life in general, but bad when you have to spend the entire night outside. It was bitter cold, I had on 2 complete
outfits, plus two jackets, plus a blanket that I oh-so-fashionable wore tied
around my body. I still couldn’t
feel my toes by the end of the night.
I arrived at the night vigil in style via the back of
pick-up – a midnight ride through my community was quite peaceful from the back
of a truck, unfortunately it was cloudy but I can imagine just how amazing the
stars would have looked. I
immediately slipped into the cooking hut as to have as few people see me as
possible. Sadly a year plus here
and my presence still creates a spectacle. I walked into the cooking hut and was greeted by my eldest
sisi who was hacking away with a machete at a hunk of fresh beef hanging from
the thatched roof. She stopped to
greet me and as she stepped away I saw where the hunk of beef came from. An entire cow carcass was on the floor,
the skin was laid out as a protective barrier for the floor and the rest was
being chopped apart by a bhuti (male) with an axe. The only part not dissected yet was the head, which sat off
to the side. Bits of flesh and
blood were splattering the wall and surrounding area so I swiftly walked to the
other side of the room and found something to do. I quickly got swept into the business of preparing a meal
for the 200+ guests that were in attendance. I have to admit I wasn’t much help and was too tired, wet,
and cold to put much effort into making myself useful. I eventually fell asleep on a table and
woke to an almost empty hut, just the cow head, the heart, which was now
hanging from the ceiling, and me.
It was the 3:00am teatime so everyone was out delivering tea
and sandwiches to the guests. I
had no desire to participate and I have to admit that I feel very in the way at
these events since I don’t really know what’s going on. My family is good with trying to make
sure I am ok but they were so busy at this vigil I didn’t want to bother them
with helping me try and help them, if that makes sense, so I just went back to
sleep.
I eventually opted to leave my safe haven for the procession
to the gravesite. It was raining
so I donned my rain jacket and the only visible part of me was my face. I managed to remain hidden until we got
to the gravesite and everyone stopped moving. The walk there was on a treacherous, muddy, flooded dirt
path through the bush. Turns out
thorns can go through rain boots, got one right in my arch trying not to fall
into a mud puddle. I managed to
loose all my family members in the procession so when the service at the
gravesite started I just stood in the crowd and tried to watch. I didn’t know anyone around me and they
were giving me weird stares when they realized I wasn’t a Swazi. I was feeling really alone and just
wanted to cry for Gogo, for my family’s loss, for being wet and cold, for
feeling like an outsider.
Finally I saw Gogo’s Paster whom I met a few weeks ago and
he smiled and waved at me through the crowd. I smiled back and that gave me the strength to not break
down right there. I eventually
decided to leave the crowd and see of I could find any of my family. I didn’t, but I found so many people I
did know; ladies from my family’s church, neighbors, and family friends. I was trying to wedge my way underneath
the single tarp that could fit maybe 1/8 of the people there to avoid the rain. Here I found Gogo’s best friend
Sara. She is probably as old as
Gogo and only has one eye but she remembered me and she waved and gave me a
silent greeting. I greeted her
back with as much sympathy as one can express in a silent exchange and then I
almost lost it. I was so sad for
her – she just lost her best friend.
When I met Sara my Make told me that she was Gogo’s best, best, best
friend. They lived almost their
entire lives across the path from each other and held each other’s deepest
darkest secrets. I could feel the
power of their friendship. Life is
hard here and the courage and strength to get through it may lie simply in the
power of a best friend. It made me
miss my best friends.
I haphazardly made my way back to the homestead with the
crowd. The meal was already
underway with people being served in take-away containers. I didn’t really know what to do now so
I just stood in the rain and watched, eventually making my way back to the
cooking hut where I found my Make and one Sisi. They got me food, which was much, much needed at this
point. I hadn’t eaten since 5pm
the night before and was getting shaky.
After food I attempted to help clean but proved to be useless
again. My brain was not
functioning and I just needed directions to be given to me, and no one was
there to give them so I just stood in the rain that had turned to the slightest
snow flurry I swear (or I was just delirious at this point). I told myself I was just observing and
that was an ok thing to do to. I
watched as dogs snuck into the cooking hut and stole scraps of food and fought
each other for them. I watched the
men pull the giant tarp tent apart.
I watched as a truck got stuck way deep in the mud and a tractor plus
the encouragement of all the men pulled it out. I watched as the kids, despite being half dressed and
barefoot, still managed to play games and laugh. I just sat back and watched Swazi life happen. Eventually I hitched a ride home where
I had to de-thaw my feet in a bucket of hot water and then curled up in bed the
rest of the day.
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