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| The pallbearers with the coffin |
If
there is a tribe known to take precedence and interest from the variety of necromancy
practices carried on around the world, the Manjago tribe would certainly have
risen above all others. At about 7 a.m.,
the sound of drums mixed with the cackling of chickens, the bleating of goats, the grunts and squeals of
swine jolted me from my sleep. I rubbed
sleep from my eyes and reached for my shoes.
The tune of the drums was a call to assemble and the entire village came within minutes. Some
with gray ghostly faces that looked fuzzy and groggy. Others with faces covered
in dried drool, and boogers in their eyes. Some looked ireful as if the remnant
of their dream has been chased away by the drums. Elders sat inside the small hut decorated with
palm leaves. I saw my mother and sister
at the other side, so I went and sat next to them.
The
Drums suddenly stopped. A man came out from the small hut and stood at the
center of the gathering. His facial appearance evinced the mark of more than an
ordinary man. He wore a long red gown. His eyes, which changed reddened with every
variable emotion, and seemed to reveal a world of craft, and ingenuous, and
unfathomable wisdoms. He is utterly untouched with religion, o0r, if he does;
he believes it as a fable. That I can tell from the multiple of little gods and
relies that he carries around. His work
seemed to be profiting him a lot. Anything he wishes can be obtained—not from
his gods—but through demanding from the people.
His influence in the village is of no mean size. People do not only
respect him, they fear him; advantages and privileges that he seems to enjoy
greatly.
He
mixed water, and palm wine in a small handle calabash container. He took out a
dry, brown, fruit like calabash filled with small beads and crafted with cowrie
shells that produces a calming shooing sound. He shook it for about a
minute. Then, in the capacity of the
crowd, he roamed around the circle, vending words of incantation. He went and
stood at what appears to be a little, flat, stretcher that symbolizes a coffin.
For some reason, I didn’t see it when I first came. It is a small size strecher
made out of palm tree woods with stretch out handles on the sides for easy
carrying. It was nicely decorated with a sponge, a pillow, and a white blanket
as if someone was about to come rest on it. Certainly, it is not my
grandmother’s body. It is too small for her.
I wonder what it is for, so I stood in utter curiosity listening to the
man in the circle communicate with it.
“No
matter how much the rainfall, you knew this day would come.” He said, pointing
at the little flat coffin followed with dripping of liquor “The cloud refuses
the bright spring sunlight to sign, but I see dust-motes dancing in the wall of
your house, you knew this day would come. The forest and the farms are empty
from their protectors, and birds and monkeys took grace of the hard sweat of the
people. The people are here to answer to your call. So come answer in honor of
your children and in honor of your name. Calm are… the tides. Daughter of
Marie, and kapencha, and Ulutin, and veronica. The hard breeze touches your
house with strong salty hands. Trembling of abandonment, the sea calls your
name. Tell us your scheme, good or bad, let your voice be clear when speaking
to us. Come clear your name. We have lost so much. Loneliness stolen in the
light of harvest. All the involves not yet given, shall be given. Bring your
voice from the profound abyss. Don’t you tell me I know, each to his confession!
It is your duty to clear your name. At the shores of sands and oblivion, the
waves desperately tell us your reunion, to stay with them, you have to clear
you name.”
The
remaining words were scarcely spoken in a loud voice. He concluded by gulping
the remaining drink and retiring to the small hut.
There
was a faint shriek from the group of spectators, and an old, puny, withered
man, who,--to judge from his facial features, was my uncle; the first born of
the family--arose. My mother and my second uncle stood next to him. He welcomed the people and gave a eulogy of my
grandmother in a short brief statement.
He approached the small coffin, then pressed and stroked it as if trying
to wake a drunken man in his sleep. Four
women pallbearers went and elevated the, holding it above their heads and marched
closer to where my first uncle and the rest were standing. The man spoke to the coffin as if he was
speaking to a living being.
“You
called for this gathering,” he began. “The people honored your call. You said
you have something to tell them and here they are to listen. You shall tell us
all you know, or we will not honor you with the blood of a pig.” He
paused. The pallbearers began to tremble
and going side ways as if they lifted something weightier than them. The crowd
began to mumble. A voice shouted for reticence and the murmuring ceased
gradually.
“Your children want to know if your death was
a natural death, or if someone had a hand in your dead?” The old man continued.
“May you cross this white cloth if you die naturally. But if some one had a hand in your death, and
if that someone is in your family, or in this crowd, or from a far away land,
or lives at the bottom of the sea, may you identify the person. The pallbearers moved towards the white cloth,
stood there for few seconds, then the first two at the front jumped, followed
by the other two behind. A sigh of relief was heard among the crowd, each
murmuring to the other but soon came to silence again, as the old man continued
talking to the pallbearers claimed to be possessed by my grandmother’s spirit.
“Have you any hand in the death of your family
member, or another family in this village, or other villages?” Every smooth jump they do means not guilty.
And again, they jumped smoothly. The crowd clapped, and others danced and sang
her name. I could see my mother’s face brightening with relief. But her eyes
were still red. Could it mean my grandmother
was not a witch? Might it mean my mother was wrong about her being in control
of us? I was angry and I did not know why. Everything seemed like a scam to
exonerate my grandmother being portrayed as cruel and evil, and wicked, and a
witch. If this was real, why does it have to require only special people to
carry the coffin? Why can’t any independent and unbiased individuals carry the
bed? What if these pallbearers were paid to deceive the audience, how can they
tell it’s a scam? How can they tell if
the pallbearers were holding some grudges against the dead person and would do
anything to shame his or her family? How can one know all these?
I
think my grandmother is a witch. Or if she is not, then she possesses some special
powers. If not, how was she able to control my sister from this far distance?
And why would Yaye tell me sister to fight back if they come for her? And that
word “they” does it involve my grandfather? Is he an accomplish, too? Am sure
he is an accomplish. Though obscure in his involvement to all the hardship my
mother went through, and is still going through, he is well aware of it. Am
sure he does. There is no way my grandmother could be this cruel to my mother
without him approving it. If he is not, how comes he never visited us, her
grandchildren? How comes my mother never talked about him to us? How comes he
was not looking over us from the land of dead: guide and protect us from all
evil, look after our crops, and supply us with food…and…meat. One thing is for
certain. My mother always call on his name more than she does to God or Jesus
Christ. I can count the number of times my mother said the name “Jezus christos”
in a Portuguese accent. Whenever she
mentioned that name, know that she has already exhausted her father’s name, or
the missionaries were at our house.
“Wow, where is this hatred coming from?” I thought to myself. I do not even know my
grandparents that well, and here I am slandering and judging them with all
kinds of vile names. Was it because of my mother? Does she even actually hate
them? I doubt she does. I mean, you can hate somebody and cry at their funerals;
that is human. But refusing to eat for days, and crying until your whole face
blistered only means you love the person dearly and would miss the person. And
shouldn’t she be rejoicing that her mother
was not a witch? That her mother did not eat from her own family or
other families? That only means my mother’s DNA has no witchery blood in her
veins. It also means she would be free from stigma and discrimination from the
village.
My
first uncle cleared his throat that brought me back to attention. The inquest
is not yet complete, and there are more questions left to be answer. He thanked the spirit and promise to celebrate
my grandmother’s gracious life with two pigs and a cow in years to come. He stepped aside and handed over the cup of
wine to my second uncle. From his look, you can tell he was younger than my
mother. But, his sex gave him the advantage of speaking before my mother. He
did the usual ritual with some poetic incantation. He asks if my grandmother
knows any sickness, or bad luck, or evil that is finding its way to hurt his
family. The men carrying the bed made no reaction indicating positive result.
He asks about his family wellbeing, and asks that the spirit protect him and
his family and his job. He praises the spirit of my grandmother and thanked her
for honoring them with her graceful life. He promises to celebrate her life
with an sacrifices of a goat and two pigs. Afterward, he performed some bragging dance
movements and around the circle, mocking and mimicking what I presumed was how
my grandmother talks and walks. The pallbearers took a rush on him and he ran
and took refuge at the crowd. The crowd burst into laughter.
The
time came for my mother to ask her questions. She was still smiling from her
brother’s silly act. Seeing her smile gave me a sense of peace. She healed the
cup for few seconds, pondering on what to ask or say.
“Indeed
you are graceful” she said. “Only a graceful mother would curse her
daughter. Only a graceful mother would
curse her grandchildren. How graceful can you be when all you cause me and my
children is pain and sorrow.”
As
she speaks, the pallbearers rushed to her but she ran and took refuge behind
her brothers. The pallbearers staggered around, flipping and meandering the circle
as if the coffin like stretcher was about to overturn from their heads. They
tremble with fatigue; a sign that my grandmother was not happy with my mother. Every
now and then, they would rush in joint force towards my mother, but my uncle
and few other men stood in between to stop them from reaching her. But that did
not stop my mother from speaking. My mother wept and spoke in an aggressive
tune but with a lot of courtesy, too. She asked about the constant sickness of my
siblings and my long gone Father. The pallbearers responded negatively and the
crowd was stunned. I wonder if the pallbearers already know the story of my
mother and her mother and are acting up, or if they really were possessed by
the spirit of my grandmother and the anger in her still exist.
My
mother seems to have a dictionary of Manjago words. She speaks the language smooth and
rhythmically with no errors. If I hadn’t known her, and I happen to have met
her in this village, I would have assumed she invented the Manjago language. Most of the words she spoke were in a form of
incantation. So, I could not understand most of her questions and what answers
she got in return. I only can tell if the answers were positive or negative by the
staggering of the pallbearers or the reaction of the crowd. I was hoping she
would ask her about my incapability to read or spell simple words such as book
or pen. I felt a little resentment about it, but the fact that the bed-men
indicated that my grandmother’s spirit was angry with her subsided my anger to pity
for her. She finally came to the end of
her questioning and stepping forward from behind my uncles who concealed her
from being knocked down by the bed-men indicating my grandmother’s anger
towards her. She thanked grandmother’s spirit for being kind and graceful to
her community, and pleaded for my grandmother’s forgiveness and mercy. My mother promised to sacrifice a pig and
honor her with its blood.
My
first uncle came forward to give the closing remarks and bid the spirit
farewell. But a voice came out from the crowd reminding him about the
scorpions.
“Those
scorpions,” he asks. My heart jumped in excitement. I was dying to know about
the scorpions and there origin and what brought them there. “ Were they yours? Did
you send them?” The bed-men staggered around the circle; each trying to pull
the other to his direction. I did not
know what that meant, but the crowd did not respond happily. I wandered my eyes
around for some explanation, but could not find any. “Who then sent them?” My
first uncle says. Then I knew my grandmother denied knowing the appearance of
the scorpions. “Is that person her in the crowd? Identify the
person.” My uncle commanded. For the first time, I felt nervous. “What if
she identifies my mother or someone close to the family? What would they do to
the person? I thought to myself. I looked at my mother in the eyes, but she
showed no sign of anxiety. The pallbearers staggered around the circle trying
to find the person that brought out the scorpions. They went around the circle
twice, but could not find the person. They set off to the other end of the
house where some of the women were busy cooking breakfast and the crowd
followed. They went around the compound and inside the rooms. They searched
every corner and bushes, but could not find the person they were looking for. My
uncle commanded angrily that unless the person is identified, my grandmother
would not be buried. His comment seemed to have angered the spirit. The
pallbearers set out in the street and to search for the villain. The crowd gave way and followed behind. They
walked down a part leading to a small bush. Dogs barked, birds flew, and dust
could be seen all over. The bush was full of prickles and dry sticks that could
easily cut through even the skin of an alligator. But the pallbearers walked
barefooted and at ease wimbling as they
walk. They look tired and their whole
bodies were drenched with sweat. Then I knew, or believed for the first time,
that they were indeed possessed.
The crowd followed behind them as they passed
multiple houses before finally stopping at a mud house. The doors were open, but the rooms were
empty. As they make a move to enter the rooms, my uncle plea with the spirit to
stop. He knows the family of the house and the crowd also knows. Some seem
surprise others seem to have already known. It is the house of an old woman
many gossip to be a witch. They believe she murdered all her family, and lives
alone in this lonely hut. I felt sorrow for the old woman without even knowing
who she is. Every turned back and returned to my grandmother’s house.
chapter
Manjagos
do not believe in reincarnation of dead people like many other tribes. They
believe in the resurrection of the spirit that makes its journey to go meet the
ancestors. Although death is a sad occasion, many see it as an opportunity to
send their gifts to their long gone loved ones. Those that could not attend a
funeral, or could not afford to buy a gift for their dead relatives, use the
moment to make restitutions to the departed souls.
That
day, just some few hours before the burial, my grandmother was put in a wooden
casket. People began pulling out their gifts: Some with nice colorful handmade
woven blankets, others with shoes, and clothes, and money, and even
brooms. One by one, they put their gifts
in the coffin and whisper their messages on her ear.
“Give this to my mother, tell her I wished to
buy her more gifts, but things are pretty hard. Tell her to protect my
household. I shall not send her anymore gifts if she fail to protect my family.
Another
came “Give this to my husband; tell him I was not going to honor his request.
It seems like he totally abandon his family. The children fall sick one after
the other and he seem not to care. He chases any man that wishes to marry me and
support me and his children, yet he will not protect his family. He should tell
me what I did to deserve this? This will be my last gift to him unless he lightens
the burden he left me to carry.
Similar
acts continue: “Give this to my father, to my grandparents, to my brother, to
my sister, to my uncle, or to my aunty.” Some express satisfaction to their
gifts, others dissatisfied. Some show gladness, others show sadness. Over time,
the gifts began stacking. Every corner of the coffin was loaded with gifts
revealing only my grandmother’s face.
They ended up offloading some of the gifts for a little room to close the
coffin. I was stunned by the struggle
some of them had to go through to buy these expensive gifts, but have little to
eat. I wonder if their actions were culturally motivated, or just a sheer
ignorance from their part: that the already departed loved ones are in great
need of these items that, if they are not sent to them, they will create
problems or hold deep grudges and refuse to protect their families.
Don’t
get me wrong. I believe in life after death like most Catholics do. I believe
our bodies will be raised in glory and spirit. That we will be able to walk and
talk, enjoy blissful things of heaven,
and we will no longer be subject to the flaws and fragility that pervade our
lives on Earth. We will be able to travel effortlessly and appear and disappear
at will like Jesus. I believe all that. But what I do not believe, or what my skeptical
mind could not comprehend, is how my grandmother was going to travel with all
these items and how the delivery will be done.
I wonder what they would be needing these items for, and why they cannot
get it themselves? I question how my grandmother would remember all these
names. Or if she is going to pay custom for all her luggage. Or how she was
going to deliver them. I believe spirits travel fast and can reach any place in
time. But what if some of these people are already condemned to hell just like
our religions make us to believe, and are unreachable by my grandmother? What
will she do with the gifts? Is there a returning address? Is she going to be
dishonest, and keep some of the gifts for her own personal use? I brooded over
all these things and nothing made sense to me. Well, it’s not like anything
ever makes sense to me when it comes to Manjagos and some of their cultural
practices.
The
coffin of my grandmother was finally able to close. Many were disappointed that
they could not send their gifts. They held to them disappointingly, and will
hopefully go home with them. I bet they are wishing for another funeral to be
able to post their gifts. Am sure some came purposely for that. “How gross?” I thought to myself.
The priest completed
the final ritual by throwing some tree leaves and pouring water at the entrance
of the
gate. The pallbearers tried to lift the coffin, but it was too heavy for
them. A few other men joined in, and
help carry it. My mother walked behind the
pallbearers. She was supported by two other women in white
and black. I could
hear her weeping. My sister walked alongside my uncles and I, behind them. The
crowd
followed behind. The wailing began. Louder than ever. Women kept holding
on the coffin demanding that
my grandmother should not leave them. Some would
fall and claim to faint, and would be carried away.
Others would dance in front
of the coffin, living the pallbearers no choice but to come to a halt. They
would
jump and hop with one leg at a time.
Left to right. Back and forth. The actual Manjago honor and grief dance. Then, come to a standstill and give a sign
of surrender before lazily allowing themselves fall on the ground remaining
tranquil until they are carried away. The priest would make a stop every now
and then to either greet the trees, or acknowledge the presence of an existing
ghost that had come to pay respect, or try to chase away an uninvited ghost in
which he alone will see. The cemetery was a short distance from the house; less
than 2 kilometers away. But it took
almost half an hour before reaching there.
We got to the cemetery. A small abandoned land
that smell of decaying leaves and overgrown grasses. Eerie shadows cast by the
setting sun hangs ahead of the baobab trees, settling on the stones of the
graves like a heavy, suffocating sheath, casting a relentless misery on all who
trespass through it. It seems to gesture with a supernatural glow that no one
can resist. Without warning, the deafening wailing suddenly was pierced with
taciturnity. Each one silenced by the beauty of the place, or terrified by its
noiseless power.
There was a fresh over turned dirt, and
bottles of leftover food and liquors on the neighboring grave's bouquet. The priest came forward and splashed some
water in the freshly dug hole. He slaughtered a white hen and allowed the blood
to drip in the hole. It flaps its wings and spattered its blood on the coffin
and in the priest’s face which, to the Manjagos, is a positive result; that my
grandmother will have a smooth journey.
The
thought of her having a smooth journey struck me very hard and I could not
explain why. I still hates my grandmother with no clear objective. Maybe I have
a clear objective. She is the reason behind all the suffering that my mother is
going through which I also do not know how to explain. All she did was coursed
her. That cannot cause any one great suffering, can it? I think the choice was
of my mothers’. She chose to marry a man that failed to respect her. A man that
failed to be there for her and reciprocate the love she has for him. I do not
know what word to describe my father. An ingrate? Maybe that suits him
considering the sacrifices my mother did for him; abandoning her whole family
just for him. He could have rewarded her in another fashion but this. But
again, not like my mother’s life was going to be any better in this village. Or
maybe it would have been better. That she would have been happy with the
husband her parents chose for her. But again, you cannot be happy with someone
you do not love. That’s all what matters
in a marriage: love and happiness. Yet, many women in this village are not
married because of love, but because of the will of their parents.
The roaring of some terrible voices, the
falling down of bodies brought me back to attention. The presence of neither
would seem strange in this place. My grandmother’s coffin was lowered into the
hole by six men with long ropes: lifting, dragging, and withdrawing. I now
began to understand why in Islam, women are not allowed to go to the cemetery.
The drama they bring in can even wake the dead.
The
priest performed his final ritual with some drops of palm wine and gave his
blessing in a whispery tune and left. My uncles gave their farewells with a
handful of sand. My mother held to hers
for few seconds. Lazily, she poured it on the grave. She no longer has the
strength to cry. All she does was hiccups. I did not want to pray for my
grandmother, but I did. In my heart. The usual catholic prayers: one our
father, three holy Mary, and one glory be to the father. I wanted to sing, but
I do not know any funeral service songs. I bid her farewell with a handful of
sand. Sand was poured in by someone else. I turned to see who it was. And it was
my sister. Our eyes met. I could tell she was crying, too. She held my hand,
raised it, slithered in and wrapped herself around my arm. I felt her body. I
felt her heart beat. I felt her breath. I love my sister. But we were never
this close. I cuddled her tight, and tears rolled down my eyes. We stood there
in silence, while my grandmother’s coffin slowly disappeared with sand.
As
people turned to leave, a strange buzzing sound came from the trees. What I saw
froze me to the spot. A terrifying swarm of bees, spreading above our heads
like a mushroom cloud of smoke, buzzed towards us. The wailing began again. Only this time, it
was the wailing of those running for their lives: men, woman, and children; all ran from different
directions; over the fences, and into the bushes and houses. Nobody have the
time to aid the other. My uncle ran with my sister and my mother took the
opposite road. I could see swarms of bees above her head as she tried to fan
them with her head scarf. I stood still. Confused on what to do. A woman ran
towards me sharing the swarms of bees that followed her behind. Then, I felt a stung on my head and it was
like having a red hot poker in my brains: then came another sting, and another
one, and another one. All of a sudden, it seems like my brain just started
functioning; that I was not aware of my environment until now. I took off.
Slapping my face with every sting I felt: from my head to my body. I saw my
mother coming and I knew she was coming for me, or my sister. Maybe me. My
mother always comes for us. Every mother does.
We
met. And together, we crashed and lay flat on our stomach; on the ground and
remain in that position for a long time. It took a while before the buzzing
fadeout from us. The pain in me feels like I have been branded with a hot
branding iron from the inside out. The pain tingles inside my head and my
eardrum could not detect any sound any more. It hurt so bad that I was
shivering and afraid I was going to faint. Some of the villagers came with heavy
blankets and bundles of wood flickering with fire to keep the bees from
attacking them. They helped us out and finished burying the coffin.
None
of the stings appeared to cause allergic reactions or were otherwise severe
enough to require transport to a hospital, but our faces were all swelled and
red. Herbal village medics helped remove
the stings and treated us with some tree leaves and local ointment. My mother’s
face was also swollen, but she refused to take any medicine. She sat on the
chair nodding her head with my sister resting on her lap. According to rumors, the
fact that my grandmother warned my mother not to attend her funeral causes the
bees to attack us. My mother knows the truth behind the bees attack. I believe
she does. The way she is nodding her head tells me she knows. Her mother-- my
grandmother-- ordered the bees to attack us. But if she did not want my mother
to attend her funeral, why didn’t she stop her right from the start. I guess
she did. She possessed my sister’s body for hours. That should have been an
good sign for my mother not to attend her funeral. But instead, she did.
Although
my skeptical mind would not allow me to believe all these things as real; not
coincidence, I could not explain why they were happing. The truth is I do not
want to believe they are real because of my Christian faith, but they cannot be
false. The grudge between my mother and my grandmother is strong. Very strong.
I do not know what will break this bond, but it needs to be broken. I became
scared of my grandmother more than ever. I was scared to even hate her. If she
is capable of sending the bees to attack all of us, she is capable of doing
worse not to my mother alone, but to everybody that sympathizes with her.
After
the sun went down and the candles in the rooms were becoming useful, the
drumming began playing to pay final respect to my grandmother. Men, women, and
children jumped in the circle one at a time and paid their respect with a
fashionable dancing style; each with their own style of dancing. They jump, and
twist, then bend one knee on the ground and take a bow. Others, men in
particular, dance with long sticks and hit the ground with it.
All of a sudden, my mother jumped in the
circle. She went around the circle as if trying to let people acknowledge her
presence. Mouths began to connect with ears. People started to whisper at each
other. Fingers pointing at her. But she ignored them all. My head turned to
every person that leaned to the next person standing with them to whisper
something. I looked at them with hate and disgust, and wish I know what they
were saying about her.
My
mother finally stopped at the center of the circle looking down on the earth as
if trying to get the rhythm of the drums to match it with a style of dance. The
fact that my mother can dance is not a novelty to the people that knew her
during her teenage life. She is a good dancer, yet I do not remember the last
time I saw her dance. Seeing her stand at the center, ready to dance, was
something I proudly wanted her to do. But, my mother was about to do a
different dance: the dance of the spirit, the dance of paying respect to her
mother; my grandmother. It requires no
style or human liking, but that of the spirits. A dance I still cannot
understand and that my mother will not explain clearly to me when I asks.
She
took off her slippers. She loosen her wrapper and tightened it. She waited for
a few seconds again, listening to the drums. Everybody threw their gaze at her
and I could feel their eyes inside me. I know she felt the same. Eyes too have
a sound. You can only hear them on situations like this. They are powerful, and can distract you
faster than the loudest thunder sound. It does not only speak to the mind, it
speaks to the heart and the nerves.
My
mother took a step forward and twisted left to right and settled at the same
spot. She twisted again right to left and settled at the same spot. She took two
steps backward, and then rippled her body inward. She contracted her body and
narrowed it down to the ground. She suppressed her whole face, buried it
between her knees, and rose up with a slow motion. Her hands moved through in
graceful patterns in front of her, spreading wide to the firmament, and
inhaling the air as if she was denied that freedom for a long, long time. Then
she twirled, and twirled, and twirled. She twirled until the sound of the drums
started fading out in her ears. She twirled until she could no longer recognize
the people. She twirled until the
heavenly sky seemed as if it was about to fall on her, and the earth seemed to
be rising to gobble her up. The crowd went
wild in applauses. Good Manjago dancers twirl long.
My mother finally came to a standstill with a heavy stamp of her
left foot on the ground. Then, for the first time, I come to know my mother was
left handed. She blinked, inhaled and exhaled for few seconds, wishing she
could be as graceful and steady as the rest of us. As she imagined how it must
feel to have the world spin around while she twirl, or how it felt to fly
through the air in a leap, or even how to just have a general rhythm to the
movement of her feet, she found herself drifting out onto the floor. She wasn't
even conscious of it. Before she knew what was happening, she was swirling
around in the beat the drum gave her again; gliding around on the center as if
she did always belonged there. Even though she was unsure of when her day dream
had crossed into reality, she knew she was doing the steps right, and she could
feel that the music emphasized her every move. Pride made her smile, and she
was glowing with joy. She sashayed and lost her balance, and violently
disoriented across the floor. The drumming stopped and the murmuring voices
took over. The wild and burning enthusiastic dance that, some few seconds
before, flowed like fire through her veins, had been succeeded by a sluggish
numbness, the sign of abrupt suspension. I think my grandmother is a work
again. I want to run to her, but I could not find the strength to move. Nobody could
find the strength to move. She remained
on the floor. Dipping and scrabbling the earth as if she had lost something
very valuable to her; something that contains her life. Her hair covered her
face. She searched and searched the ground. A tranquil smile had settled over
her expression, and she seemed like one falling into a pleasant rest, nodding
her head up and down. Then, she gave out a loud shriek.
“Release
me,” she said.
“Release
me from this heavy bondage you gave me to carry…release me from this sorrow you
put me through. Release me from this suffering you put in me. My broken desires
- unbind my heart of these so I could finally run free and desire for once to
be a mother whom is always regarded as greater. I might have hidden my shame and sorrow. I
want to obtain my peace and contentment. You shall release me. Have you not put
me in all kinds of vice? Have you not ruined me already, soul and body? Have
you not made me a thing to be commiserated and detested by the pure? You shall
release me for my cup has overflowed. It
is a necessary virtue. You shall release my children. They cannot suffer the
sins of their mother. You shall release my husband. Day and night, my inner being
yearned for him. You shall release that
which has been part and parcel of my conduct. You shall release that which
shadowed and blighted the happiness of my marriage. You shall release that
which has driven him to the arms of another woman. Release him from his folly
and weakness so he can feed his children from his Ambrosial Nectar.”
After
she finished talking to what many believed is the spirit of her mother; my
grandmother; the one buried some few hours ago. She sat
there; tranquil; feeling broken and small. The crowd has fallen silent now, so
silent that I wonder how they managed it. They must all be holding their
breath. All eyes trained on her. There was a long pause. Then, from somewhere
in the crowd, an old woman stepped forward.
A trace of tear streamed from her left eye and settled on her lips. She
reached for her headscarf and threw it at my mother. Manjagos throw headscarves
to honor people. Another woman also stood and did the same. And then a third.
Soon enough, a dozen other women were throwing their headscarves and wraps.
Those without headscarves, bowed at her. Men took off their hats. I came to realize my mother was not just
dancing for dance sake. But she was dancing for our suffering. For our poverty.
She was dancing for her curse. She was
dancing for my sister and I; dancing for what we are and who we might become.
She was dancing for her husband, my father, too. The Manjago curse is grandiose.
It is so grandiose that it affects all generations: from my mother, to me, and
to my children. Whatever can break it
will be a worthy cause. I want my mother
to be release. I want my sister to be release. I want to be release. And I want
my children and their children to be release, too.
Although
all stood up and honored her with their headscarves, and bows, and hats, none
went to pick her up. None wants to share her curse as often believe. A dead
persons curse is expensive to remove. It requires a lot of sacrifices to the
gods. It requires a male pig, or a cow. It requires gallons and gallons of palm
wines. In short, it requires a huge festivity of three days of eating and
drinking and bathing and giving gifts to the gods.
I went and kneeled before her. Her face wet
with tears and spatters of phlegm. She was moaning something I could not hear.
Her eyes fixed at one side and she seemed deep in thought.
“maa,”
i called her, holding her face in both of my hands to bring her to attention.
She just moaned, but would not look at me. I called again, using my shirt to
clean up her face. I turned her head towards me. Our eyes met. A glow of
sensation flowed inside my body. There was a gurgling in her throat. Her eyes
red, augmented and hallowed. I can bet they are out of tears. She has been
crying for three days now. Her lips were still moving. Her voice was raspy in
sound. I looked at her with pride. I looked at her with adoration. I honor her.
I just wanted to end her suffering. I just wanted to go to my grandmother’s
grave, dig her out and give her 22 slaps; 11 in each cheek. I wanted to slice
her body and burn it to ashes. I just wanted to be her bodyguard; her
protector: defend her from my father’ and from anybody that wish to harm her. I
just wanted to be the one she could count on, feel save with; the one that can
bring happiness back to her life and carry her sins. Feeling helpless to do any of these made me
cry. I bend on her shoulder and cried. My sister came and joined us, and we
cried together. my soul out.
