Page 17 of Five Goodbyes

“You don’t want to know” Mora warns.

“I’m sure I don’t, but now I need to know,” I say.

“Well, the person placed with the dead had to first have sex with all of the males of the settlement before being strangled and stabbed to death, then laid with the deceased. Then they were sent to sea and their boat was lit on fire,” Jasmine says.

“Suddenly goat hearts and cow’s blood is preferable. My stomach starts to tighten. How good of an idea is it for me to be coming along on this adventure?

“Will I actually have to be part of this proceeding?” I ask Philip and Mora.

“I’m not sure, this is a first for us. Whatever it is, you’ll have to do it. If I have a vote, it will be to have your body speared with the quills of a porcupine,” Philip says with a laugh.

“Uh, I vote no on that,” Jasmine says before I have a chance to reply. “There are certain parts of him I don’t want harmed.” She winks at me.

The tension and sadness I’ve felt all day fades as the four of us continue to joke and talk about lighter subjects for the rest of the drive. The beauty of the country is unexpected. There’s something to be said about traveling away from the constant fast pace of America, to see true and pure unadulterated, and in a lot of cases, untouched nature. We only see a handful of vehicles during our hour and a half drive. This all changes as we make our way over a small hill.

The sight is shocking. Old cars and beat up trucks are piled up just off of the dirt road, parked in twos and threes. There’s a steady line of people walking on each side of the road, but we can’t see where it ends.

“Do we keep driving or stop and walk?” Philip asks.

“Are we close to the village?” I ask.

“I’d say we’re about two to three kilometers. So, yes, this is probably where we need to stop and walk,” Mora says.

“Kilometers? You haven’t been away from the US for that long. How far is three kilometers?” I ask.

“Well, I tell you what, you can be one of the few white guys here who drives past all of the people who have driven across the country to be here, and then respectfully walk over a mile, or you can park, and walk in the procession,” Mora says.

“Or we can park and walk. Sorry, I’m just unsure of what to do. I’m with you,” I tell her.

We all step from their jeep and Mora throws her arm around me. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Mor.” We might throw a lot of crap each other’s way, but we have a deep, binding friendship that nothing can break. We play a lot, and we know when to stop and be serious. We can switch modes in a heartbeat with nothing but a look at one another. This is only one of the reasons she’s a friend for life.

Mora has a quick conversation with a woman as we all begin walking along the road. I wait until there’s a pause in the conversation.

“What did you say?”

“She speaks Kikongo, which I only know a few phrases of. She understands some Swahili, but only a few phrases. And neither of us know enough French to make any type of conversation. So that’s why it was a short-lived convo. She’s surprised by our presence here. While I don’t stand out much, the three of you look like lighthouses on a stormy night. I’m sure we’re going to get a lot of looks while we’re here. I doubt there are many white people who travel through the country to attend a funeral. I’m becoming more and more aware of what a big deal this is that we’ve been invited to participate.”

“I’m not sure how to act, but I’ll follow your lead. I’m honored they want us here,” I say, once again feeling humbled and way out of my league, not a feeling I have too often.

Our group falls in line with the cadence of the other people walking to the village. The closer we get, the more congested the vehicles become. Quite a few people mill about, in separate conversations. The tone is subdued and respectful.

“Well, this must be it,” I say as we stop.

“Hunta!” Agneau, the father I met earlier, calls before stepping up to me and giving me a bear hug.

He pulls back then says something to Mora, who begins laughing as she replies.

“What?” I ask.

Mora shakes her head still wearing a smile. “He asked why we didn’t come up here and park. He has a spot saved just for us. He said that the guest of honor should’ve never had to walk so far.”

I begin to speak but Mora stops me. “Don’t even say it.”

As soon as we step over the threshold of the invisible barrier of the village, I instantly lose hours and have no idea where they go. It feels like one of those movies that do a fast-forward scene, where hours, days, or weeks pass in a thirty second timeframe. From the moment Agneau introduces me to the first person and they place the side of their head to mine, I can’t say how much time goes past before the sun sets. What I do know is my neck is stiff, and the sides of my head feel rubbed raw.

I find myself sitting to the right of Agneau. His wife and surviving children are on his left. We’re on a platform putting us up to shoulder level of those directly in front of us. The village, packed with countless people, awaits the conversation to begin. Jasmine, Mora, and Philip stand near me but not close enough for people to notice them. This is one of the only times I’ve not only felt out of place, but slightly uneasy.

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