Funerals

In the last seven days, there have been two funerals.

A week ago, our District Medical Officer died and Saturday, one of the women on our staff lost her sister.

I can count the number of funerals I’ve been to in the last 18 years on one hand, so two in one week seems to me quite a lot.

At the last funeral I went to, the horses pulled my grandfather’s body across his farm, his home, to the grave and we followed, a trail of black. Here, as the doctor is carried across his farm, his home, to the grave, women in brightly colored congas follow: greens and yellows, red, lavender, white, patterned with flowers, chickens, the moon and stars.

For days before the funeral, the family holds all night vigil. Everyone goes. We sit for hours together, sometimes in silence, sometimes drinking tea and eating pilau, sometimes talking about Doctor, about work, but mostly silence.