Page 18 of Five Goodbyes

Whatever the host of this funeral is saying to the people is lost on me, and because Mora’s too far away, she can’t interpret. A heavy slap on the back brings my attention back to the moment and I nod my head up and down as the men and women in front of me shout and clap and express their gratitude. Their cultural norms to emotional replies don’t fit with what I understand, so it leaves me feeling lost.

Then it gets worse. Each of the children stand, come to me, and present me a gift while saying, “Asante sana.”

After the last child returns to their seat, my lap now holding little trinkets, Agneau’s wife stands and speaks. During it I hear her say my name,Hunta Spaks.

The audible gasp from Mora catches my attention. By the time I focus on her she has her hand over her mouth. Turning to Philip and Jasmine, their hands also go to their mouth and their eyes go wide. Whatever Mora shared with them must be big. I’m in the dark, so I sit here trying to not seem confused and uneasy.

Agneau stands, steps up next to his wife, and shouts so the deep crowd can hear all of the way in the back. I can understand the wordEgbeblebeing cried out. The mass of people gives return shouts of the name in solidarity. The decibel and energy behind the shouts is nothing short of heart-stopping. It takes my breath away. If I remember nothing else from this trip, I’ll forever remember the passion and love these people have for a fallen son and brother.

Following the lead of the family, I quickly step off the stage and fall into step as we walk. The crowd splits open to allow our unimpeded journey, then create a tidal wave of steps behind us.

Jasmine, Mora, and Phillip catch up to me.

“What was that, Mor?” I ask.

“Well, Davina is pregnant, and she announced to everyone that she’s naming their child in your honor. It doesn’t matter if the child is a boy or girl. She was speaking a little quicker than I can keep up with, but there’s no mistaking that baby is going to have your name.”

My step hitches at the respect this family is showing me. “I didn’t do anything more than carry their son. I don’t understand how this means so much,” I begin before Mora stops me.

“Ah, Hunter, you’ve never seen yourself the way I see you. You’re an honorable man, and you showed care and respect when most wouldn’t. They will never forget you, and they want their family to always remember. You accept this honor with graciousness, and you dang well better send some gifts to their family when you get back to the states. Their son was a good provider to them, and you’re now involved. You can’t look away.” She knows I will do just as she’s requesting.

“Okay.” I don’t need to add more. This will be done.

Our caravan stops in front of a rectangular hole in the ground. This is the final procession. Five men slowly lower Egbeble’s sheet covered body into the hole as a spiritual leader speaks. With the body released, the parents take a handful of dirt and drop it on their son’s body. Then the siblings follow suit. It surprises me to see that none of them cry. They seem at peace with this.

“Hunta,” Agneau says.

I look up to find his arm extended, inviting me to stand next to him. I realize I’ve been invited to drop the next handful of dirt. I once again feel honored at being included. I step up next to him. He calls Mora over and speaks.

“He says that you may not know or understand who they are, but they know you. You, like their son, Egbeble, are a great warrior, and your spirit is a gift to them. Only a warrior can give another warrior such honor as to carry them down a mountain. And today you help carry their son, their warrior, to his final resting place.” I feel that dang tightening in my throat again.

Some more words are shared before Mora speaks again.

“He asks that you please take this dirt and help fill the hole that’s a representation of their loss. As it fills, they know his body will become a part of the dirt that creates all of us.”

Nodding my head in understanding, I kneel down and grab a handful of dirt. The first thing I notice is how cool it is, with almost a silky feel. The few pebbles stand out like cacti in the soft earth between my fingers. I take a step forward, nod my head as I say a quick prayer, and then slowly release the dirt.

I’m not necessarily a religious man, but in this moment I find myself talking to someone, or something, outside of myself, someone or something that represents life will always go on. I ask that if Egbeble has any pain still within his spirit, that it be released so his soul can rest in peace.

As I step back from the dirt, Agneau speaks again, but this time it’s to the mass of people all around us. As he finishes, the crowd walks to us and begins grabbing handfuls of dirt and tossing it into the grave.

I don’t often think about death, at least not my own death, and I can say I’ve never contemplated what this part of my journey will look like, but I may have those who attend my funeral do this as well. It’s a beautiful concept and one I can see helps everyone say goodbye. Singing fills the air while we wait for each person to have a turn at filling the grave. Though I don’t know a single word, the melody surprises me at the beauty of it. There doesn’t seem to be sadness in the sound.

The crowd begins to pass bottles of what is called Lotoko. In America, we call it moonshine. There are no cups or glasses. Those with a bottle do a quick pour on the ground, do a shot of the liquid, and then pass it on to the person next to them. Soon the ground is soaked and the fumes from the high concentration of alcohol waft into the air.

The singing grows louder, fewer pours from the bottles are pointed toward the ground as more is aimed into mouths. The smell of fire settles over us, and soon after, the well-known smell of meat being cooked over a flame reaches me. This smell overrides my brain, reminding me I haven’t eaten in a very long time. This happens at the same time as a bottle of the liquor is passed from Phillip to Mora, to Jasmine, and into my hands.

I’d rather not take a swig of this stuff on an empty stomach, but Agneau meets my eyes and raises the bottle in his hands in a salute. When in Rome . . . I watched my friends and my beautiful woman drink this and make no faces, yet the muscles in my jaw and forehead are involuntarily spasming before I fully swallow this jet fuel.

“How in the hell did you guys drink this with a straight face?” I ask while slightly gagging.

“We didn’t. We just put it up to our mouths and blocked the opening. You have to be crazy to swallow that stuff. I remember burning pits in the Middle East that smelled better than this liquor.” Philip whispers.

I look at Mora. “Thanks for the warning,” I tell her. She gives me a serene smile. When the moment is right, there will be payback.

“Mora, can you please ask where we get the food? This stuff is dangerous on its own, even more so on an empty stomach,” I plead. She nods, and I can clearly see she’s fighting laughter.

Every step we take toward the food is filled with men and women coming up to us, mostly me, and in their native language saying, thank you. At least that’s what Mora tells me. They could be telling me to get out of their village and I wouldn’t know the difference. Many of them holding their own bottle of the devil juice are inviting me to take a drink with them. I do my best to fake it, but sometimes I can feel my throat catch on fire and know that if I don’t eat soon this will be an utter train wreck for me.

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