MY GRANDMOTHER SHOULD NOT REST IN PEACE

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.