Let Go

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.