Wanted to write about something that happened a while ago while I had the chance. One of my fellow teacher's son died a while ago at the age of 32, and I went with a couple of other teacher's to her house to console her. It was a Thursday afternoon, and we got a ride there in the school truck. We rode in the bed of the truck, holding onto the crossed bars that were at shoulder level and caged us into the back of the truck. The conversation on the way was casual, all in Kiswahili, and probably not about Grace or her son who had passed. When we got to her house it was crowded. There were about 12 men in the living room all talking, in pretty good spirits. I never was told who these men were, but assumed they were relatives of the deceased, or Grace. We sat with them for about 15 minutes. More people came in as we sat there, and the entire time there was this morbid singing coming from a room in the back of the house. The singing sounded like about 6 or 7 women, and in between the songs there were prayers, or audible crying. After a while a female teacher at my school came out of the back room and told us to come with her. She led us to the room where the women were singing. We took our shoes off and entered. Each of the woman looked sad as they sang, but they voices didn't waiver. Grace was in the corner of the room covering herself with a Kanga- a cloth material a lot of women use to carry babies on their backs, or to make dresses out of...

Grace was crying, and seemed very upset. The other teachers went to her first. Each of them knelt beside her, took her hand, and said some things to her as the other women continued to sing. I was last to talk to Grace, and as I knelt down the song ended, so everyone could hear Grace crying, and yelling. When she saw me she started to speak in English. She said, "Geoff! Oh, my son... he is gone Geoff! My son is gone!" I didn't know what to say, but I told her how sorry I was for her loss in English first and then in Kiswahili. She had grabbed my hand, and I wasn't sure if she was going to let it go, but when the next song began, she let go, and I stood up and left.

It was an interesting display of grief. It sounds horrible for me to say it, but it almost seems fake. The thought that occurred to me as I was in the room was that if this were a movie, there would be accusations of bad acting. I thought maybe it was as though Grace had to grieve in full that day in order to get on with her life, and be done for good with the grieving process. I'm not sure?

One of my teachers, named Ruth, brought me to church today. She knew I was "Roman" Catholic, but brought me anyway to her pentacostal church. I t WAS quite the experience though. The reading today was John 10: 7 by the way, and I think 10, 14, and 16 or somewhere around there as well. It's all about Jesus being a door. You should come through the door with him. He is the good shepard, all before him (Jesus) were thieves and robbers, but the sheep did not listen and they are saved. The whole first half of the service (2.5 hours in its entirety) was songs. Great songs though, that sent chills down my spine because everyone could sing so well, and in harmony. There were these great drums, and two guys playing these home made guitars (one had 3 strings- he was the rhythm guy). There was this guy wearing a suit that acted like James Brown jumping up and down starting the songs, and singing. It was really entertaining.

Then the pastor took over and talked for almost an hour on the reading from the book of John. I had a guy next to me help explain what was going on, but I knew enough kiswahili to catch most of it. "Yesu ndio mlango!" The pastor kept shouting = Jesus is the door! "Ingia na yeye!" = Enter with him. It was a long talk and he was screaming, and being very repetitive. At one point there was this noise from his pocket, and he just stopped and said, "Samahani simu yangu," = excuse my phone. He took it out saw who it was, and then pushed a button to stop the ringing and put it back in his pocket before he continued. Later, in the middle of a sentence he let out this big burp. It's common to hear burping in public, but it was funny to see it at church- FROM THE PASTOR!

Knowing some kiswahili made the talk interesting. I could only understand certain words, and the words I would catch out of the blue would sem out of place kind of, because it would be like: "What could he be talking about?" At one point he said, "Weka Mafuta," = put oil. Another time he said, "Wame shika watiti wake," = The were holding their breasts. I kept thinking how it is interesting that when you hear about people being possessed and how they speak different tongues they've never heard before- they often times are accused of speaking swahili.

So, after the long talk, the pastor invited everyone who has a problem to come to the front and "We will pray for them," as my translator said. A bunch of people came up, and everyone started praying their personal prayers out loud. Many were yelling, some were crying, and everyone was very enthusiastic, and animated. The guy next to me (The translator) went nuts, he was shouting, "mummble mummble mummble, LAKINI WEWE ni mlango!" = But YOU are the door! Teacher Ruth had seated me in the very front row by the aisle (prime seating) and it was at this point that I turned around, and everyone was on their knees with their heads buried in their arms, or on the seats, shouting their prayers. The translator next to me, the people with problems at the front, and myself were the only people standing.

When that was over, there was one more song, and then the pastor opened the floor for any guests to say hello. One man from the back stood up, and he said some things. Then in English the pastor said to me, "You sir, stand and greet everyone." I stood, turned around and said, "Asanteni sana, Nashukuru (and in Kihehe- the tribal language here) Ndilumba." That meant, "Thank you all very much, and then I am greatful- first in Kiswahili, and then in Kihehe. Everyone gave me a big ovation, and then the pastor asked me my name, and I said, "Naitwa Geoff," He said, "Ah, ok, Geoff." He told everyone in kiswahili that I was from America, and I stopped him and told him no- Canada. After that he told everyone the service was over, and everyone left.

I walked home with Ruth and an 18 year old boy named Alan, who spoke English very well. He was the son of one of my fellow teachers, and he was interested in the fact that I studied Anthropology, and wanted to know all about it. When we got to my house he said, "Ok Geoff, I must go now, but I will see you later because I must learn more about computers, and you can teach me." All in all it was an entertaining start to my day to say the least.