Banana Tree Funeral

I start teaching today. I’m wearing the same thing I wore yesterday to church so that I look as smart as I can for the kids. I’m teaching math to Senior 1 and Senior 2. They are around the age of middle schoolers – my favorite age group.

They giggle. There are about 45 kids in my S1 class and only 30 something in my S2. I felt the same way I did on my first day of subbing at the high school. Nervous at first, but after a few minutes I was fine.

During class Fiona (the girl from Mukono who likes to have white friends) text messaged me this: Iam nt aclock dat I can sms u 24hrs ade bt ma hrt wil b lyk aclock dat wil nt stop carin,lovin & prayin 4aspecial person lyk u. hope life is kul. I MCU.adam sms me

What?

There is a woman who teaches Luganda at the school. I meet her and get the feeling that she is not impressed with me at all. I don’t know if she spoke any English at all while I was there. I did hear her comment on the way I said one of my Luganda words though, while everyone else was just impressed that I knew how to answer the question that was asked.

I finish school at about 4pm and start to walk home. I pass by quite a few people going in the opposite direction. One of them is a man, Ezekiel who is the pastor at the 7^th Day church in Ntenjeru. He is starting an organization like Festus did and wants my opinion on things and wants me to visit his organization in West Uganda. I told him I would love to see other parts of the country, but I couldn’t this weekend.

I walk on and pass more and more people walking in the other direction. I pass three women and I say, “Jambo” and then they tell me they are going to a burial and that I should come to. A woman just up the road died yesterday and they are going to pay their respects.

I hike with them on the same path that Jeff, Kelley, and I took yesterday, and then further still, hiking forever. I tell Florence that I had been this way only yesterday and she tells me that she has lived here six years and has never been up this way.

We get to the burial, which is on the top of a big hill. People are gathered in an area of banana trees and vanilla vines. They have put in a shallow hole, maybe four feet, and sealed it with brick and mortar. There are two preachers. Women are laying in the shade of the trees. There is a group of people surrounding the grave.

The second preacher begins to sing in Luganda, “Nearer My God to Thee.” They lower the casket into the grave with ropes and her family cries out. She has left behind four children and they cry the loudest. The people nearest to the grave start singing along, and slowly the music spreads to the rest of the congregation. I hum along, not knowing the Luganda words.

Men, like the ones that are building the school, start mixing cement and rocks with shovels and hoes. It is strange because they smile and laugh occasionally. So do others in the crowd, as another preacher starts his remarks. It was similar at the baptism. But all during the service her family sits under the banana trees a little way off and cry.

We leave as they seal the woman inside her grave. As we walk back I see the shortcut that we took yesterday to get home. I wave goodbye to the ladies and an old woman who joined us while walking says, “uh uh!” (Which means no, Ugandans use a lot of humming and uh uhs to communicate.) They said that I would get my head chopped off. I try to explain I took the same route yesterday and it was fine, but liking to make old woman happy, I follow them the long way home.

They tell me that a fox could attack me. I tell them that I will kick a fox. We get to Florence’s house, and she tells me that someday I need to come and take photos of her and her children. A man with a bicycle starts walking with me and tries to teach me some Luganda. He is impressed with how much I know already. (Which really isn’t much. I only know basic greetings.)