So today I went to my first Zambian funeral. A man named January who had prayed to receive Christ when one of our teams came earlier this year. He was a young man who attended the Bible study and church in Sinazeze some.
In Africa the funeral pretty much starts when the person dies. I drove and picked up some of the church guys and we started driving to the village where he would be buried. As we got out of the truck and started walking women were wailing and crying loudly. This made me think how African culture is very similar to the culture in Bible times. I thought of Jesus weeping after showing up in the middle of Lazarus’ funeral. How He was so moved at the sight of people who were saddened by death, and who thought death was the end.
We walked up on a large crowd and made our way through them to stand next to a deep grave that was still being dug by the deceased’s brother. We sang a few songs (all in Tonga) and then a crudely made coffin was brought out. A few of the men jumped down into the grave to help lower the coffin in. I said a prayer and brother Doubt gave a short message (also all in Tonga). Then the family brought some of the mans clothes and put them in the grave with him, then a bar of soap, then his plate and cup. (It was later explained that they would never bury a person’s axe or spear with him because then he might come back and spear someone?) A man the brought a shovel full of dirt from the grave over to us (his church family) and we each just put our hand on the soil, one at a time. We sang a few more songs as the wife went and knelt down by the grave crying and mourning. Then men began taking turns filling in the grave. Four sticks were placed at each corner of the grave and as the men dug women came forward carrying large rocks and bricks and laid them in a pile. Once the grave was filled the four sticks were pulled out, broken and buried on the top of the grave. (This was explained later to me that they do this to prevent anyone from taking the sticks and using them to do harmful magic on someone.) The men began covering the mound of dirt with the rocks and bricks. Once the grave was covered two sacks of wildflowers picked from the bush were opened and given to people. The wife put her flowers on first, then brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, then the man’s children came forward, (his daughters wailed and cried very loudly, crying out “Taata” (Father)) then cousins put there flowers on. Then I got nudged and handed a small bouquet of flowers (apparently they had asked pastors or ministers to come) so I laid them on his grave and said a silent prayer for his family.
As I put that small bouquet of wild yellow flowers and bouganvilla blooms on his grave I couldn’t help but think of some of my very close friends back in Wynne who just two days earlier had buried their oldest son. Marci and I hurt for them, hurt that we couldn’t be there to hug them and comfort them. We had prayed for our friends a lot but I took this moment to pray for them again and then returned to my place in the crowd. A few more flowers were placed then an offering was taken up for the family to buy food for all the people who had come. (In the US we take food to a family who has had a death but all African cultures I know expect the family to feed them when they come to a funeral.) I had brought sugar and salt and milk and gave it to January’s older daughter. After the funeral people began greeting each other and I thought how different but also how similar this was to funerals in America, it is a very important social event. I saw a few familiar faces, some local headmen, the headmistress of the local basic school who gave me a grade 1 Tonga book when I told her I was learning Tonga. Then we left.
So at this point in the story you’re probably wondering why it’s titled the way it is. As I pulled up to the funeral I saw all these African men throwing rocks at a tree. I heard the guys in the truck say something with the word “inzoka” in it and knew it must be a snake. As we got out and all the mourners were wailing I resisted the urge to run over to the tree and look but on the way back I asked if we should go take a look by the tree. (If you were hoping for just a snake story and not a look into the Tonga culture of burial and funerals I apologize. Famous western writer Louis L’Amour said a good writer always starts with action and leads his reader on. Dad always said never let the truth get in the way of a good story. )
So we walk over to the tree and see a chicken has started pecking at the dead/dying snake. It’s not huge but medium size. We flip it over and it looks light brown but as I look closer you can tell it is a deep olive green color. Only green mambas are that color. The guys concur, it is a green mamba. “It can still hammer you,” one of them says meaning that it is not quite dead yet. We leave and pay our respects one last time to the family.
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