Time was Getting Short
Hi Everyone:
Yesterday, I had my first experience at participating in a Zulu funeral which took place in a hall easily accommodating four hundred people. The church near the home of the deceased was simply too small for those wishing to express their condolences. The service started at 9:00 a.m. and ended at 1:00 in the afternoon. The women sat in the main body of the church while the men were primarily in the sanctuary area. The ratio of women to men, I estimate - 15 to 1.
Flossie, our homemaker wanted to pay her respects to the family and I volunteered to drive her to the funeral. I really wanted to go, but was unsure of the way and a bit hesitant of what to expect being the only non black person amongst so many. So, when Flossie spoke of wanting some time off to pay her respects to the family, I grasped the opportunity to accompany her. My going with her swept away any apprehension of traveling into uncharted territory by myself.
Winnie Ngcobo, one of our employees comes to work at Our Lady of Mercy on Monday and Friday mornings to put things back in order. Her daughter, Kohsi, (mid twenties), started helping her mother two months ago when she suddenly took sick with a mysterious illness that claimed her life.
Koshi died on a Sunday – the funeral was on the following Saturday. Why so long a wait? The simple answer is that it takes that long to gather family, travel time, wait for payday and help with exorbitant expenses such as funeral fees especially when you factor in the low wage scale of domestics ($15.00 a day) coupled with 70% unemployment in many areas. The weekend is time off from work which allows friends and neighbors to pay their respects to the family.
Expenses are an issue. The cost of preserving the body during the grieving period, cost of a casket, viewing fees, food for those who come to pay their respects and other expenses could easily amount to R 30,000 or $5,000, an enormous expenditure for a domestic worker. In order to make up the difference a parent or brother would go to businesses in the area and beg store owners to help pay those expenses incurred. It is not a matter of the family being extravagant at funeral, it is part of the custom, that, that is what you do.
I wore my habit to the funeral. It paid off as they allowed us to drive close to the entrance of the church. We were ushered down front. It was packed. I was directed to sit up on the stage with all of the other men. One of the preachers invited me to speak. I obliged. Fortunately, I brought a funeral sermon with me just in case. As I read it to the assembly another person translated into Zulu. “Go Down Death” is one of my favorites.
During the four hours of preaching and singing, a young man attentively paced up and down the middle aisle of the assembly with a water pitcher and glass in hand for anyone desiring refreshment. There were lots of alleluia and amen responses elicited from the eulogizers. At various times the congregation, with eyes and heads raised, would stand, sway and sing with hands waving in charismatic fashion.
Spontaneous and audible voices of praise were interspersed throughout the congregation at various times. The music was loud and at times the preaching was deafening. There were tears and lots of perspiring. One of the preachers wore a black leather jacket, screamed a lot and evoked amen’s and alleluias about every three or four sentences. When Scripture was quoted the Bible was ready in hand and followed ready to mark the passage referred to.
A decorative blanket was draped over the casket and a picture of the deceased was near by on a stand. The temperature had to be in the nineties.
Time was getting short. I had a wedding at 2:30. I excused myself, left the stage area, quickly paid my respects to Winnie and left with Flossie. Would we make it out of the parking area was the next hurdle as people were streaming out of church and blocking the narrow pathway of drivable terrain. With some help, we made it out to the road and off to a wedding, even with a little time for refreshment.
The body was transported back to the home where it was to be buried on the family property, most likely in the back yard. This is a common practice amongst Zulus in South Africa.
So ends another day of a different experience from another culture of the world in which we live.