At grandpa’s funeral,
no politics please
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P
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icture this; some
faceless retard mobilizes like minded opportunists to block the requiem mass
from going on. They demanded they be given additional five goats or one bull.
BY MUSYOKA NGUI
“Hello, where are you?”
“I am at Kitui. On my way outa here…”
“Before you go, one more thing, do this…..”
Yes…..
“Go to the County Assembly and get the
booklets from Kelvin. They are ready.”
“Ok.”
That is the phone
conversation between me and dad moments before I left Kitui town for my
grandpa’s burial. The burly security guards at the county headquarters were now
used to my visiting and they asked if I wanted to see Kelvin. Here, they
identify staffers by the cars they drive. Yule wa Subaru? I nodded in
affirmative.
My cousin Kelvin was at
hand to receive me but regretted that grandpa’s burial booklets were not ready.
Understandably, they were sent late, explaining the delay. Anyway, he emailed
one Ma3D at Mwingi to design them ASAP so that I pass by pick them for the
event next day.
After an hour and half
I was at Mwingi at the cybercafé that won the tender to design my grandfather’s
Burial Programme and Eulogy (BPE). However, I had to endure hours of waiting
since the designer said the photos were not copying, others not willing to be
pasted, some got lost blahblah!
It was getting late.
The four page document proved hard to prepare. The designer had to contend with
my ultimatums.
D0n’t put grandpa’s photo that way. Remove
that colour. Put more wreaths. And I am getting late.The designer retorted:
Kwani Mazishi ni leo na wewe? Me: You just do your work. Si I’ve paid you. Mind
you I know how to do it but I don’t wanna go through piecing together granddad’s
life history. It’s painful.
From May 22nd
when he passed away we were determined to give him a befitting send off. After
all, he was the only surviving first grandfather left but now departed. And
when Saturday May 31st arrived the atmosphere was somber. I joined
my big clan to celebrate the 75 years grandpa had lived.
We checked everything.
The food, the papers, the guests and the vehicles. Everything was ready. At
1120 am we hit the road. This was going to be the last journey of Musyoka. The entourage
was huge.
There is something with
death. The mystery surrounding it aside.
Uncle Nyayo said: Today you will see how the ground swallows human body.
Death does not prepare us for the departure of a loved one. I remember January
grandpa jokedly requested us to visit him “before I die”. His now blind wife
told me that there are many forthcoming goodies. They wanted to sell their land
as they had bought another elsewhere. The children were jostling for shares of
the spoils. Soon after the land was sold, grandpa fell ill. He lost appetite.
He grew weak and was admitted briefly.
Our visit never was.
Somehow we shelved the plan for August. The big godfather hat we wanted to take
grandfather is at home. It remains a next time.
The funeral did not
attract wailing and ululations for various reasons. One, grandpa was the only
remaining patriarch of his time who embraced monogamy at an age where polygamy
was culturally cool. He had only one wife Rhoda Kasyoka. Together they had
eight children, five sons and three daughters. They are survived by many
grandchildren and great grandchildren. Barclays would say that is what it means
to prosper.
His name will survive.
Like Jay Z song Forever Young, his name shall be passed from and to
generations. There was a host of glowing tributes dedicated to Musyoka. His
wife was unafraid to tell God to receive him at a place he had prepared
himself. I did not read hypocrisy of mweke mahali pema peponi. Granddad did good
good enough not to require our intervention for God to receive him.
His name is a brand.
He’s a label. That explains why various descendants have stuck to his full identify
of Titus Musyoka. Even at a time when it is cool to have Facebook-like pseudo
names for anonymity and crime purposes, granddad’s has remained pure.
When his body delayed
and the sun’s rays headed for the inevitable sunset, Musyoka had already
rested. Like mighty pillars my fellow grandchildren stood behind me as I read
the eulogy. I got the translation right. The script was in English but the audience
was Kamba. The strong flanking gave me enough confidence to read the genealogy.
I learned the local language substitutes for son- in law, father in-law, uncle
and brother.
The cameras were
clicking away as it were. The microphone boomed. The speakers reverberated. The
event was filed. No corruption.
Talking of corruption,
we the genuine grandchildren had to step in to deliver and dignified and
respectful burial for granddad. The drama behind the scenes had to be checked.
The fake party crashers were identified and shamed. Picture this; some faceless
retard mobilizes like minded opportunists to block the requiem mass from going
on. They demanded they be given additional five goats or one bull.
We the immediate
grandchildren forcefully resisted these unrealistic demands with an unequal and
opposite reaction force Newton discovered in his law of motion.
Effectively, we won.
The two goats were set free from joining the already dead of equal number. The protesters
(ironically they are the ones who untied the goats hoping to be offered a
better option) argued because they were denied their “right” to eat they will
not throw the symbolic soil that will lay grandpa to rest.
Like mighty soldiers we
entered the house and traditionally rotated the casket to face head forward
before taking it out.
Kwani grandpa ate what?
Si ni mzito sana.! Some said it is the
wood that made the casket. Others said it is his weight. We don’t know and may
never know. The pall bearers walked meditatively, contemplating every step. I
had been taking photos. I put the camera
down and took out my handkerchief, blew my nose.
The clergy said it was
time to view the body. I was among the first to take a glimpse. Shocked! He was
darker than he was in life. Do undertakers apply shoe polish on the dead?
Finally the casket
rolled down the grave. It was devastating. Sad. Musyoka’s last journey was
brave. Every time the casket neared the floor, the gravity was pulling him
harder to rest in peace. The ancestors were clapping, dancing and singing a
welcome song.
In contrast, the other
world closed a black chapter of grief and opened a white one of hope. Grandpa,
we shall live your legacy. Smile down at us and pray for us that we may live a
ripe old age as you did. May your soul rest in eternal peace!
The writer is a student of
Bachelors of Arts Degree in Communication and Media at Chuka University and an
intern at KNA Kitui Bureau. He blogs at musyokangui.blogspot.com
Email your thoughts to
musyokangui02@gmail.com
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