Mwende Bwino, Bashikulu. Tukalamifuluka (Farewell, Grandfather, We Will Be Missing You)

“Mr. Godwin Mulomo was 84-years-old. He was born in 1925. He died on Friday, July 24. He suffered from a chest cold and from asthma. He had ten children, 6 males and 4 females. One of them has died but nine are living. He had 46 grandchildren and 35 great-grand-children.”

These are the words of the “life-story” of my host-father, read aloud (in local Bemba language) by his second-born son, Nighton, in a church service which paid tribute to the life of Mr. Mulomo, who might possibly have won the contest for cutest old man in the world.

Part of me smiled inside upon hearing such a simple eulogy for the man who I called “bashikulu” (the Bemba name for grandfather). Maybe it was due to my amazement that he had managed to live to know 35 of his great grand children. But I was also taken aback by how little else was said about what a wonderful man my host father was. Even though I understand the importance Zambian villagers place on birthing many children, part of me wanted to cry out during the service, “Say something else! Why finish there? Why don’t you mention something about all of the things I have heard about Bashikulu’s life in recent months? What about him speaking both Swahili and English? What about him being a cook for missionaries in Fiwila for several years? What about him caring for orphans unrelated to him? What about him being famous throughout Fiwila for having such a decent character?”

But I chose to leave the mourners in peace by only asking these questions in my mind. Right now though I think I will take advantage of this blog entry by sharing with my readers all of the special things that I will remember about Bashikulu.

I will remember his wonderful smile of crooked teeth and how frequently he laughed.

I will remember how warmly he welcomed me to live with his family on his compound and how he made sure to greet me every single morning to see how I had woken up.

I will remember how much he reminded me of my own Grandfather Mahan in the sense that he was always finding a task to do in order to stay busy. That kept him content as ever.

I will remember all of the sounds that came from the direction of Bashikulu’s insaka that just had a way of making me feel full of simple joy. As he went about completing the clear-cut projects he set up for himself, he would either be whistling a happy tune or belting out a traditional Bemba song with no shame whatsoever. I loved hearing his long sigh of evening contentment as he rested by the fire in his insaka after a long day’s hard work. I always chuckled to myself when one of his grandchildren would patiently yell “Bashikulu… Bashikulu…BashiKULU!” in order to get his attention away from something he was so intently focused on doing; and to also assist his 84-year old ears, which became hard of hearing some time ago.

I will remember how he would frequently come find me in my house just to make sure that the time on his black plastic, two-dollar “made in China” wristwatch was exactly on time up to the minute even though I knew that he secretly told time by the sun anyway. I loved it when he came to find me after the face of the watch had become detached from the band and how thrilled he was after I doctored it up with a bit of packaging tape.

I will remember him laughing and laughing with a sort of childhood innocence at the various puppies that have come to stay for short whiles on my compound and how much fun it was to watch him with my kitten, Tulo, when I first brought him home with me.

I will remember watching him pass by my house in his Sunday best, faithfully on his way to church every week.

I hope I carry these memories with me, putting into practice his simple lesson of enjoying life, something he practiced everyday.






I suppose you might be curious what a Zambian funeral is like and I feel it might be therapeutic for me to write about it considering what an intense event it was for me.
Starting in February, Bashikulu began to act differently, not himself at all, constantly complaining of body pain. It progressed further and reached its peak about a few weeks ago, which is when I knew I should prepare myself for the worst. I believe he had a stroke the week before he died from the evidence that one morning he could no longer move his right arm or leg. As I watched my host family having to carry him around everywhere, I wished him quick relief from his suffering, knowing that he of all people would not want to live in such a way.
I guess that I got my wish, considering he passed away around 7 pm the night before my birthday. I was in my house preparing to go to Mkushi the next day when I heard the wailing, howling and sobbing begin outside and I knew then that I would be attending a funeral instead of going to Mkushi. Paxina, my host parents’ grand-daughter quickly came to my house with tears in her eyes to tell me Bashikulu had died and that she was going to cell phone network in order to alert other relatives of his passing. I numbly asked her if there was anything I could do and she calmly replied, “just sleep”.
However I got little sleep in the next forty-eight hours. It was clearly the family’s time for mourning and the Zambian way of grieving is done through loud wailing, weeping and chanting. A while back, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer commented that he thought Zambians got over deaths quickly and after witnessing their grieving process, I wondered, if what my friend believed was true, if the reason was because of their overt display of grief. The wailing lasted through the first night and continued in intervals the whole of the following day.
I woke up the day following Bashikulu’s death feeling awkward and helpless. I sat on the front porch of my house watching different community members slowly come filtering in to enter my host parent’s house, where I knew that Bashikulu’s body was. I had never set foot inside my host parent’s house (the majority of Zambians spend most of their days outside in their insakas) and I felt discomfited entering it. Paxina noticed me sitting on my porch and came over to encourage me to go visit Bashikulu.
My heart beat loudly as I entered their house. Inside, three sisters to my host parents were seated on the floor around a brazier which provided them with much needed warmth on a day which seemed to be around 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Bashikulu rested on a mattress behind their circle. I observed that my host mother was nowhere to be seen. Upon my entrance to the house, the women’s’ brief break from wailing ceased as they began their mourning once again. Not knowing how to go about wailing myself, I simply bowed my head and folded my head in prayer.
After about ten minutes, the women told me to go see my host mother and Paxina escorted me over to an enclosed insaka where Bamayo was resting, explaining to me that in their culture the wife of a deceased man remains separate from the body until after burial. We slid through the door of Bamayo’s insaka where she was sitting on a reed mat. She cried and wailed for a few minutes and again I bowed my hair in prayer. Tears filled my eyes, but none rolled down my cheeks. I remained there for a half-hour or so as I watched women visitors come trickling in to support my host mother. When I left Bamayo’s insaka, I did not know that she would not set foot outside of it until after Bashikulu’s burial.
Paxina then invited me to sit with her in her own insaka and I remained there most of the day. I watched Bashikulu’s daughters and granddaughters cook nshima for the many visitors who were trickling in to pay their respects to Bashikulu. Many community members sat in various respective gender circles throughout the Mulomo compound. I would not realize until a few hours later that all of the visitors would be staying through the night.
At least twice the various babies must have urinated me on and toddlers I held in my lap while their mothers participated in the mourning process or were socializing with friends and relatives. I stuffed myself with the frequent plates of nshima that were handed to me by Paxina and her mother, Julia. I shook my head in awe as one of Bashikulu’s pregnant granddaughters began to go into labor and was quickly ushered to the clinic. I endured many stares and questions from the visitors who were not used to the “muzungu” (white person) of the compound.
At one point during the day I enjoyed a long conversation in Bemba with the 84-year-old sister of my host mother. She informed me that her and my Bashikulu were born on the same day and asked me with a laugh which one I thought looked older. She non-chalantly showed me tumors developing around her ankles and explained to me with the movement of cupping her breasts that they were present there as well. Even though she had been going to various clinics and hospitals throughout the area, she was not able to find any treatment. All I could do was shake my head in sympathy. I listened humbly as she told me I had a good heart and how much she respected me for feeling sad for the family for their loss. She chuckled as she struggled to leave the insaka, explaining to me lightheartedly that when you’re old, it’s more difficult to move around.
As the day slowly turned into night, large fires were made in the middle of the various mourning circles around the compound to keep everyone warm for the night. I realized everyone would simply be sleeping on the ground outside. Even Paxina would not be sleeping in her comfortable bed in her warm house. I lent her a reed mat for extra cushioning for the night she would spend in her insaka. I even considered remaining the entire night with her, but she firmly explained to me that I wouldn’t be able to manage on the hard ground and that she would accompany me back to my house so that I could sleep on a mattress.
Outside of my house, my dog Buddy started barking at all the nighttime intruders on his property. He never spends the night inside my house but that night I forced him to keep me company by my bed despite his constant whimpers of protest.
As I got ready to crawl into my bed by candlelight, I listened to the murmur of the groups of people outside and suddenly heard a choir in the distance. The church choir was a few meters down the path leading to the Mulomo compound and slowly proceeded onto the property to camp out for the night. There was not once a two-minute cease in their beautiful harmony of song until sunrise. I thought to myself that there could not be a more peaceful, lovelier way to honor someone who has passed away, especially Bashikulu.
At sunrise, the wailing continued, but intervals between the cries were longer than the day before. Everyone lingered around the compound until mid-day while they waited for the Sunday church service to finish in order for Bashikulu’s service to follow. When it became time, a white truck backed up to the house and Bashikulu, inside his coffin, was placed carefully into the bed of the truck. A few of his grandsons provided the coffin with company as it drove slowly to the church and the rest of the crowd followed. As I watched the truck slowly drive away from the house with the children I had grown to know and love sitting in the back with their grandfather, I completely lost it. All of the tears in my eyes rolled down my cheeks and my jaw quivered. A woman I did not know came and stood next to me, softly murmuring “don’t cry, don’t cry.”
The church service was an austere hour, consisting of a few songs, communion, offering and a sermon. The father preached about whether or not people in the congregation were ready to pass over, explaining that Bashikulu definitely was and will be welcomed by God up in heaven.
After the service ended, there was another procession of the crowd as it walked over to the cemetery for the burial. I had never seen a Zambian cemetery before and tried not to stare somberly at the unmarked graves (Paxina had explained to me earlier that most in Fiwila are too poor to afford a headstone). The burial did not last long. I could not see most of it happening as I stood behind the large crowd in an attempt not to draw attention to myself. I was, however called forth at one point to join the “higher status” members of the community in putting flowers on Bashikulu’s grave. After it was covered in vibrant colors, a tin coffee cup was pounded into the fresh dirt of his grave. I had noticed earlier that cups, mugs or bowls were stuck into the dirt of the other graves surrounding Bashikulu’s. I have yet to ask a Zambian about this custom or tradition, but I would speculate its reason is to ensure that the spirit has something to drink from.
The crowd dispersed from the cemetery to their own homes and I returned with my Zambian family to ours. I stood around awkwardly for a few minutes and then heard my host mother calling to me. She had finally come out of her insaka of mourning. She smiled at me and told me to sit by a brazier because I looked cold. I felt a measure of relief at the normalcy of Bamayo’s conversation and went over to Paxina’s insaka to continue speaking with Bashikulu’s granddaughters.
Now, a few days following the funeral, I am filled with so much love for my Zambian family. They have kindly and humbly welcomed me into their lives and for that I am so grateful. And as I mentioned earlier, I will always remember Bashikulu.