“What’s that?”
“Why is my alarm going off so early?”
“Oh wait, my phone is ringing.”
This can’t be good. No one calls in the middle of the night.
It’s Latino. He woke me from a really deep sleep, but I’m trying so hard to
understand what he is saying. If he is calling in the middle of the night,
there must be a robber! Wake up Amanda!
Uncle Rico’s dad is dead.
Let me back up a minute. When we hire a new worker that
doesn’t speak English, one of the first things I do is give them a nickname. It’s
never fun to hear your name in a conversation and wonder, “What are they saying
about me.” So I give nicknames that only Nunu, Latino and I use. If you follow
The Widow’s Might on Facebook, you’ve probably seen me refer to Bounassa, our
main guard, as Mr. B.
Early this year when we needed a new guard, we asked Mr. B’s
youngest brother Raul if he wanted to guard for us. Shortly after we hired him,
I gave him the name Uncle Rico (yes as in Napoleon Dynamite).
So back to my phone call.
“Uncle Rico’s dad is dead?” My brain is trying to process,
is this Mr. B’s dad too?
Latino keeps talking, “no Uncle Rico got hit on his motorcycle,
they took him to the hospital and he died. Uncle Rico is dead.”
“Wait are you saying Uncle Rico, Raul is dead or he is in
the hospital?”
“He is dead.”
“Woah.” I’m finally awake.
“Does Mr. B need to go. Tell him he can leave.”
I get off the phone. Nunu and I just lay there both taking
turns, saying “Raul is dead?” It’s shocking, he was only 22 or 23. For me, I hear of death so often here but this
is the closest I’ve come to it. The first person I’ve actually known.
The next morning, we wake to get some more details. First
off, bless his heart, Mr. B went to the hospital around 12:30 and then came
back to continue to work around 3 or 4. It turns out that Uncle Rico and a
friend were driving to a village 20 – 30 minutes further out of town and a
woman hit the bike. They were both thrown from it. Uncle Rico died at the hospital
and his friend is paralyzed.
As we are getting ready to go to Uncle Rico’s house to pay
our respects, I ask Nunu when the funeral will be and he says, “today.” Oh
okay. Out of respect, I wear a floor length skirt and t-shirt that covers my
shoulders.
At about 9:30, Nunu and I left to walk over to Uncle Rico’s.
As we near his house, you can tell something is going on in the village. There
are more people than usual.
We stop and talk to a guy that has a cut lip. Nunu heard
that he fought off a robber, but not before his lip got cut and he got a machete
to his shoulder blade. Turns out the robber is the guy that we met and prayed
for a few weeks back out near our other property making charcoal. He is now in
jail.
We turn the corner to Uncle Rico’s street and look for Mr.
B. I see lots of men gathered near Uncle Rico’s house and then glance over to
see all the ladies sitting under a large tree. We find Mr. B and seeing him, my
eyes water. Mr. B is one of the coolest guys you could ever meet. He is such a
smiley, happy, amazing guy. He is such a present father. He is so much that
most the men around him aren’t. To see him obviously hurting is really hard for
me.
He asks if we want to see the body. I’m just sort of freaked
out at this moment. Not sure what I’m supposed to do. Not wanting exceptions to
be made for me because I’m white or Mr B’s boss. But honestly not really
wanting to leave Nunu’s side. Mr. B says I can go see the body too, but I could
tell he hesitated.
Just then Nunu looks over and he sees Binti, Mr. B’s wife!
Big sigh of relief, I love Binti and I know even if I don’t understand what is
going on, she will take good care of me =)
I wade through the sea of women and their colorful capulanas
(African fabric), until I reach Binti and her youngest, Sonya. Binti walks me
over to a big tire, so I can sit. I sort of hate that. I can sit on the ground
too. Binti sits on the tire, so I join her and we play with Sonya.
Binti, asks me if I want to go see LaHoova, Mr B and Uncle
Rico’s mom. She is one of the first women I met in Muxara. So while the
introvert in me, would just rather sit in the dirt and observe with everyone
else, I go.
We walk into LaHoova’s house. It’s really dark, if she has
power, there are no lights on. As I walk into the house, I have to step very
carefully. The room we are walking into is about 9’ x 7’ and there are about 15
of the oldest women from our village, some that I’ve never met. A couple of
them shook my hand and I felt like they were saying, “Do you remember me?”
I finally found LaHoova laying in the corner, the only one
not in a capulana. I couldn’t even tell what she was wearing, but it’s the
first time I’ve seen her not in a capulana. As I approached, she pushed her
torso off the ground and looked up at me with such devastation. All I could say
was, “very sorry” in Portuguese and hope she understood. As I hugged her close
and rubbed her back, I prayed for her. I offered her my water bottle and helped
her to some water. Knowing my words are inadequate (even if I spoke Macua), I
gave her what I could.
Back outside at our tire, I leaned up against it this time
and just watched as the women kept coming to pay their respects. I watched as
women head to toe draped in capulana sit down, they would casually glance in my
direction.
As time went on, the women all talked. I just sat,
understanding the occasional word in Macua. In the shade of the big mango tree,
the temperature was perfect, but each breeze would bring a slight chill and the
women around me would bundle up. They kept asking if I was cold? I love that.
I made the most of my time under the tree, drinking in all
of the colorful capulanas as they walked by, listening to women wailing,
wondering who they are and what Uncle Rico meant to them, however even on the
most comfortable of couches, I change positions a lot. Under that tree, while
keeping modesty in mind, I sat “indian style” except both of my feet were not
under me, one foot was on my lap. I didn’t think anything of it, until there
was a unified gasp that carried around me, it was hilarious. People typically
sit with their legs straight out in front of them. I think the women honestly
thought something was wrong with my body for it to move like that.
A few hours passed sitting under that tree. Nunu kept saying
I think we are about to go to the cemetery, but nothing would happen.
Finally, I noticed all of the men on their feet but none of
the women moved, so I too sat. Then a crowd of men started walking away from us
down the street. Above their heads was what looked like a huge box with a
rounded top, covered in capulanas. I found out later that it was a traditional
woven bed, not a box.
A couple of women lost it. I felt a tear roll down my cheek.
As I watched his body be carried away, and wiped my eyes, I turned back to my
little group of women. One of them looked at me and laughed, a few others
snickered. I don’t know why.
My first thought is, is it because I’m white? Do they think
my tears are insincere? Then I get insecure, did Uncle Rico say bad things
about us after we had to let him go? Or even before? I’ll never really know,
but man I need to learn Macua.
The women never get up. One women does and she returns with
a metal bowl. I hear the change jingle inside (Harbert – it was a noisy
offering!). I look into my purse and get 25 mzn, it’s three coins. As I notice
the girl get closer I see that everyone else is only putting one coin and they
are mostly 2mzn coins. It’s to late to put a coin or two back in my purse. Ugh…
where is the instruction manual for attending a funeral in these parts?!
The girl passes me by, which was actually kind of nice that
she didn’t assume I would give. The ladies around me called her back and I did
my best to make my three coins drop in as one coin.
A few minutes later, I see a few boys and the men follow
shortly after. Slowly the women start to get up and leave, so I go find Nunu
and Latino at this point.
My first question to Latino, “why didn’t the ladies go?” “That’s
just not how it is done here.” “What if it’s a woman who dies? Is it still just
men that go?” “Yes.” I’ve seen other funeral walks and there are women, so I point
that out. Latino’s response, “Those were Christian funerals, this was a Muslim.”
Oh.
As we go home, I just keep thinking to myself. Uncle Rico
has barely been dead 12 hours and he is already in the ground. Wow, that was
fast.
As custom requires, Mr. B and his family sit vigil at Uncle
Rico’s house for three days. We are actually required by law to give Mr. B five
days off and they don’t count against his holidays, but he returned after three
days.
Uncle Rico, Raul, was a bit of a loose cannon but I’ll never
forget him. We hired him right after the robberies. I knew that if anyone so
much as looked over our fence Raul would have given chase machete in hand… so
that he could have a story to tell. I slept good knowing he was out there,
knowing that he was just the right amount of crazy to protect us.
Rest in Peace Uncle Rico.
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| Raul, on the right, handing out candy on Children's Day 2015. |
