Page 16 of Five Goodbyes

I desperately want to get a few more kisses . . . in private . . . from this beautiful woman. As always, she knows what I’m thinking as she shakes her head as she continues laughing.

“Okay, grab your coffee, then get your behind to the hospital.” She smacks my butt after she spins me toward the house. I rush inside, give Philip an arrogant smile as I pour coffee into a cup. He just laughs. I then walk from the house after a few long swallows. I’m not more than a few steps away before the kids are calling and giggling as Jasmine returns to her makeshift game of keep away.

My coffee is gone in seconds, but the hospital isn’t far, so hopefully Mora has mercy and refills my cup. I feel like a dang beggar on the street.Will work for coffee.I walk inside.

“Hey Mor, I hear you’re looking for me,” I say as soon as I see her.

“Over here,” she calls from down the corridor. She moves inside a room.

I move down the hall and see her along with five other people sitting beside a bed. I instantly recognize the man who was shot yesterday, the man who Mora stayed with . . . the man who’s the brother of the man who was killed, and who I carried from the jungle. Without introductions, I assume it’s the two brothers’ family sitting with him.

“Hunter, this is Agneau and his wife Davina. These are the parents of Franck and Egbeble, the man you carried off of the mountain,” Mora says, while the parents rise.

The tears sitting on the edge of the mother’s eyes take my whining about my sore body completely away. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen pain like this in another person’s eyes. If I never learn another thing about her, I’ll know she loves her son to her very core. When she smiles at me, tears freely fall down each cheek. She walks over, takes my hands in hers, bows her head, and places the back of my hands on her forehead. She speaks, her voice delicate and musical.

“She saysmay all the blessings of life be put onto your family,” Mora translates.

“I wish health and happiness to your family,” I tell her, not ashamed my voice is slightly choked. Mora translates this and the woman gives me a watery smile.

“It’s their custom for the men to not shake hands, but to place the side of their head on the side of the head of the other, similar to how the French will kiss each cheek. Let Agneau lead,” Mora explains as the husband steps up to me.

The man places each side of his head next to mine. He then wraps his arms around me, and squeezes. My breath rushes from me. I’m not usually this emotional, but it’s rare I meet a family member of those I help, and to see in real time that what I do has such an impact on others is the best gift anyone has ever given me. I barely manage to keep it together until this man has his fill of showing me his appreciation.

“He says his family will be in your debt for the rest of his life,” Mora shares.

“Can you tell him I’m honored,” I say. I shift, a bit uncomfortable at being squeezed for so long. I’m not going to complain about the added pressure on my sore body. Mora can see right through my discomfort.

Her quick smile tells me she’s enjoying me being squeezed. After a couple of more words from Mora, the father releases me, but continues to hold his hands on my shoulders. The rich dark brown eyes are clear. I don’t need a translator to tell me he’s speaking from his soul. The meaning is deep, and he’s full of passion as he talks.

“He’s asking if you’d come to his village tonight for the burial ceremony of his son. Egbeble was a great warrior for their tribe, and his death is a big deal. It’s custom to have a small funeral of close friends and family directly after the passing, and then they wait forty days for a big funeral. News of this event has reached far and wide. It’s reached through much of the county, and almost everyone they would expect to come will be there tonight. It will be one of the biggest funeral processions seen in this area for as long as anyone can recall. He wants you there as a guest of honor. This isn’t like American funerals. It’s really a beautiful event to witness,” Mora shares.

My eyes lock onto the father’s eyes, and as I nod my head in the affirmative, he hugs me again. He isn’t nearly my height and definitely not my physical stature, but his strength is undeniable. He releases me, then once more connects the side of our skulls together before finally backing away and taking his wife’s hand.

After my appearance to the funeral is confirmed, I’m invited to sit in the open chair next to Mora. For the next hour we use Mora, and the injured man in the bed, to interpret the stories we share with each other. It surprises me to see how much Mora has learned in her short time in this country. She doesn’t have it down to being able to speak without pause, but she’s remarkably fluent.

By the time I leave, I’m again a changed man. In my line of work, and in a world of internet, I’ve become almost numb to death. Here, the grieving is so real, and the family members so respectful and appreciative, it’s impossible not to feel this loss.

I’m humble as I walk back to Mora’s residence while she stays behind at the hospital. I move into the house and am pleased to find it empty. I need a few minutes alone to gather my thoughts and to silently mourn the loss of a man I barely knew but will impact me for the rest of my life.

By the time Jasmine and Philip return, I’m in a better space. Mora shows Jasmine and me where we can shower and get ready for the events of the night. The mood is reverent for the rest of the day.

Chapter Six

Philip drives Mora, Jasmine, and me to the small village for the funeral of the man I wish I would’ve gotten to know. It’s so odd how someone can touch our lives in a huge way in such a short time.

“Are you nervous?” Jasmine asks.

“What do I have to be nervous about?” I ask.

“To be the guest of honor at a funeral. I wasn’t even aware there was such a thing as a guest of honor at a funeral. I have no idea how to even prepare for it. I don’t want to do something wrong. We don’t know what we’re supposed to do, and what if we somehow offend their culture. What if they ask you to eat a goat heart or drink cow blood. Oh, what if you have to get a matching tattoo with the father?” I’m not sure if she’s serious right now, trying to freak me out, or trying to lighten the mood.

“What if you have to do a naked dance?” Philip asks, jumping onto Jasmine’s crazy train.

“The Malagasy people perform a ritual calledfamadihandin which they exhume bodies every seven years, re-wrap them in fresh cloth, then have a lively celebration involving music and a huge feast, then ask the deceased for their blessings. They then re-intern the body. What if we have to carry a bunch of corpses around?” Mora asks.

“The Viking funerals were a brutal affair. What if you have to volunteer to be placed with the deceased so he’s not alone in the afterlife. They did some other things that I hope you won’t be expected to do,” Jasmine says as she looks up at me with wide eyes.

“What other things?” I foolishly ask.

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