In Memory Of Saitun : Samburu of Kenya

In Memory Of Saitun

Posted on September 5, 2009 - Filed Under General News | Leave a Comment

As I took the hand of the grieving young mother, the first words she spoke
were “Ninakosa Saitun”, meaning “I miss Saitun.” The seven year old boy
had passed away in the hospital 2 nights ago. What could I
possibly say? “Najua, pole sana”, (I know, I’m so sorry). I wondered if I
would have anything to say to her that would ease the sorrow of losing her
son. Of course not. I communicated with a few phrases in Swahili just to let
her know my sympathy. Life is hard and surely the passing of a child is the
worst of times. We talked very little, but she remained by me as others
arrived at the church to greet her. Her other close friends were busy with
the service arrangements. We were waiting on the body to arrive so we could
continue to the cemetery. Men were at the furniture shop in town literally
waiting for the paint to dry on the coffin so they could collect the child’s
body from the mortuary.

The service itself was peaceful and reverent, with the exception of a token
drunk, crazy woman. It seems no matter where you go in Africa, there must
always be one person who is out of their mind and disruptive. No one paid
much attention to her and she kept her outbursts at a manageable level.

As usual in Samburu culture, men and women stood in separate groups. It
became difficult for me to identify the father as I hadn’t seen him in many
years. He remained apart from his wife the entire time. Mama Saitun, who
will now be known as Mama Meshach, is a frequent visitor to our home and we
are friends. Two good women stood beside her, while I stood closely behind.
Frankly, I was ready to catch her at any minute, should she collapse. But
Samburu are very strong and like to avoid showing any emotion. A few tears
fell silently down her cheeks and I noticed she stood with her left foot
slightly behind and her right foot in front, as if to brace herself.

As the pastor spoke, I looked at the small wooden coffin and tried not to
think about all the “what ifs.” What was the actual cause of death? What if
he had been in a different hospital with better facilities, medicines and
staff? Did he really have malaria or pneumonia as they said? Could a strong
antibiotic have cured him? Why did they only give him quinine? I suppose it
doesn’t matter now and it only causes stress to dwell on it. This is the
part of living in here that is so difficult. To wonder time and again,
“could this tragedy have been prevented? Why does this continue to happen?
Doesn’t the government care about their own people?”

I looked around at all the faces and I imagined everyone was feeling that
this could have happened to any of us. Perhaps that is the reason they had
no trouble raising the money for the funeral. Even in this society, the
price of death is too high for most. There are so many bills to pay and no
one extends credit. The hospital, the mortuary, the casket maker, the grave
diggers must all be paid. If visitors come to console you at home, you are
expected to feed them. This time, friends and family were quick to respond
and within 2 days the funds were collected.

The ceremony was now drawing to a close. Someone produced a rope and men
began to loop it through the handles of the rustic, handmade box. There were
fervent instructions to be careful and go slowly. I panicked at the thought
that perhaps the cover was not nailed shut and what awful thing might happen
if they made a mistake. Once they were in position and six men lowered
Saitun into the earth, his little sister began to cry. It was horrible.
Although she couldn’t be more than six years old, she sobbed at the sight of
him leaving her forever. Mama drew her close and sheltered her under the
covering of her kanga, a colorful African shawl. Family walked forward to
throw a handful of dirt into the grave. Women began to sing traditional
songs and hymns while shovelfuls of earth quickly filled the hole. Others
walked to a nearby bush and tore off small leafy branches. The two most
elderly women seemed particularly insistent about this tradition and I’m
sure this specific species of plant is cultivated in the cemetery just for
that purpose. They placed them on top of the mound and we prayed one last
time. Mama will not see her son on this earth again. All I could come up
with is “Anangoja wewe huko Shumataa” (he waits for you in Heaven). God is
truly good, but life, indeed, is very hard.