There
were 16 of us in the Land Rover – ten form four female students, three mamas,
Judith, Hamadi who was driving, and I. Usually, there is no limit to how many
can fit inside the school rig, but 16 is a lot no matter how you look at it,
which I couldn’t. The vehicle was too packed for me to see exactly how we all fit, to see how many students
were in the back, who was in the middle; it was just a crush of people, body
parts fitting into a tight space as creatively as possible. All I knew was that
I was in front with Hamadi, and Margaret, who protested at first, was on my
lap.
The
occasion for that many people in the school Landi: we were all getting picked
up from visiting a family in grief. The young mother of student Big Rose (or
Rose E, as she is otherwise known) had passed.
When
I say the “young mother” of Rose, I mean the other wife of Rose’s father who
was younger than Rose’s blood mother, Mama Rose. In the Maasai culture, as I
imagine it is in other polygamous cultures, the wives can be very close. It was Mama Rose who was with her husband’s
other wife when she was sick in the Monduli hospital. It was Mama Rose who went
with her when her condition got worse and she had to be moved to an Arusha
hospital. It was Mama Rose who was with her husband’s other wife when she died,
and it was Mama Rose who, when we all paid our condolence visit, had her kanga
pulled over her head, her body gently convulsing from absolute grief.
At
the school, we are lucky to not only know Big Rose but her mother, Mama Rose,
as well. She works at the school as a cleaner. She was hired in 2010, when we
were last here, and is still a diligent worker, a model of hard work for the
students. I enjoy our daily exchange of greetings – “Shikamoo Mama Rose,” “Hujambo Lisa,” “Pole sana,” “Asante” – which is all too brief but
filled with such good will. No matter what cleaning job Mama Rose is doing,
she’ll always speak in such an uplifting tone, as if she’s happy to see me. I
imagine she treats everyone that way.
I
had never accompanied students before for such an occasion, even though death
is all too common in this community. Back in July, Scott and I went to a
memorial for Naeku’s father, but it wasn’t an event focused on grieving. A
couple of months had passed since the death and the funeral, so what Scott and
I got to attend was the part when they slaughter a cow and eat a lot of pilau
and nyama and drink a lot of soda.
But
this visit to Bog Rose’s boma, which occurred on a Monday, was entirely focused
on grief and sadness. Rose’s young mother had just passed the Friday before.
The official funeral was on Tuesday, but for the rest of that week, Rose’s
family received visitors and family members.
I
set off with the students on foot around 2:25 in the afternoon with the
expectation to be back at school by 4 pm for a review session. For some
reason, when we started I thought the walk to Rose’s boma would only take 25-30
minutes. But about 15-20 minutes in, I asked the students how much further it
would be and they said it took a whole hour to walk from school to Rose’s boma.
I tried to make the students hustle as much as I could while I tried to call
someone at the school to ensure that we could get a ride back after the visit.
The end of what turned out to be a 45-minute walk was filled with Kesia’s
jovial storytelling voice recounting the first time she cooked “twenty kay
jees” of rice for a church function.
I
was relying on the students to tell me what to do once we got there so that I
wouldn’t do something culturally offensive or wrong. They did a good job
leading me around and telling me where to go, where to sit. As we entered the
boma compound, we passed a group of men sitting in a circular clump. There were
women scattered in different bomas, but in one particular boma was where a
large group of them were sitting together. By the doorway was a pile of rubber
sandals and shoes. Ndito draped the kanga I brought with me over my head.
Kesia was carrying the bag of sugar and tea the school sent with me to give to
the family.
For
a few moments, the group of students, in their red and navy uniforms – a sight
uncommon to see at a boma – and I just stood outside and waited. Then, a group
of women from inside the boma filed outside, collecting their shoes. They were
making room for our group. Kesia said, “We can go inside now.” As I stepped
into the boma, I couldn’t ignore the pile of shoes by the entrance, so I took
mine off as well, which is the first time I’ve ever been barefoot inside a
boma. I hate admitting that as I stepped inside this boma filled with so much
pain, I couldn’t help thinking about a botfly burying itself into the bottom of
one of my feet.
Going
into a boma during the day is always an adjustment for the eyes as there are no
windows and no lights inside, just darkness. Monday was a particularly bright
day, which made going into the dark boma all the more blinding. We walked into
the main room which was filled with several women sitting on the
floor, none of whom was Big Rose. Kesia poked her head into an adjoining room.
“Rose is in here,” she said. It was almost completely dark in that room. I
could only make out a few women sitting among a huge pile of maize, husked ears
scattered on the boma ground; the week prior was harvesting time in the village
and this side room was where the corn was being kept before all the kernels
would later be picked off by hand. Kesia said, leading me, “Rose is over here.”
I walked like a blind person to be seated next to Rose.
I
never know what to say in times like these, and to my Maasai student, I was
even more clueless. I said simply and politely, “Pole sana, Rose.” I’m very sorry in Swahili. Rose’s eyes
were watery although no tears were falling at the time. We talked about her
young mother’s illness which Rose described at a swollen stomach filled with
liquid. Even though Rose’s young mother died on Friday night, Rose and her
family didn’t find out about the death until Saturday. They had made plans to
visit her in the Arusha hospital but were told to go home instead since the
patient had left. Rose and other family members weren’t told about the death
until they had safely reached home because, as Kesia explained, “They must wait
until the right time.”
After
some moments of silence, Rose asked, “How’s school?” Having been a Monday after
a week-long break, there was plenty for Kesia to report. New volunteers had arrived,
old teachers had returned. To some of the news, Rose even laughed. And I
marveled at Rose’s ability to do that, to push aside her grief for one minute
and enjoy a laugh. The other women in the room wondered what we were talking
about.
Noticing
that time was escaping us, I asked Rose politely if she could come out to the
main room to see her classmates who wanted to pay their respects. She
instructed me to go out to see her mother first, and then she’d come out. So
that’s what I did. As I entered the main room, which seemed far brighter than
the side room, I noticed the kitchen mamas from the school – Rose Zakaya, Mama
Sophia, and Monica – had arrived and were sitting with the students. They saw
me and Mama Sophia moved a bit to make room for me on the floor next to Mama
Rose. It’s strange but at that moment, I felt a sense of belonging, of being
accepted and welcomed. At the same time, I was completely out of my element.
Tanzanians love to say, “Feel free,” as if whatever we do will be fine. I
haven’t lived here long enough to fully embrace that concept.
With
Mama Rose covering her face, I didn’t know what to do. I asked Rose Zakaya, “Is
it okay if I talk to her?”
With Rose’s confirmation that it was alright, I put my hand on Mama Rose’s arm
and said, “Pole sana, Mama Rose.” As I expected, my words didn’t calm her tears
or the anguish, but at least I had said something. We sat for some time, mostly in silence. Every few moments Rose Zakaya attempted to make Mama Rose stop crying. I
sprinkled in a few more “pole sana”s. Eventually, her tears did calm. Big Rose
came out from the side room and sat with us on the floor. I couldn’t not notice that
time was running out and I still didn’t know for sure if we’d get a ride back
to school or would have to walk. Just as I was about to start rounding up the
students to leave, Big Rose leaned toward me and quietly said, “My mother says
they are bringing tea out for you.” Of course, even in times of grief,
Maasai hospitality doesn’t disappear.
When
the tea was brought, I was given a mug that was less than half filled, which I
was thankful for. Big Rose attempted to give me more, embarrassed at the small
amount I was served by someone else, but I declined. Less tea means less time
to drink. I’m not as skilled as my students are in chugging hot liquids. Just
as we were finishing, we heard the all too familiar sound of screeching brakes –
the school Land Rover had arrived for us. Mugs were being collected and my
student, Mary, said, “We should go. Hamadi is waiting for us.”
Which
is how these things work – try as I might to impose my own timing, it’s rare
that I can actually control it. Events like these, where I am the outsider, have their
own movement, their own ebb and flow. Whether I’m sitting crossed-legged on the
floor of a Buddhist temple in Bhutan or with a group of women in the daylight
darkness of a mud hut in Tanzania, I constantly have to remind myself to let go – of
time constraints, of my own discomfort, of myself – and just allow other forces
to take over. It’s usually only then that I can appreciate the world for what
it is.
