Church Nigerian style

I am always fascinated by the different ways people do things. I think that my fairly isolated upbringing taught me how to keenly observe life.  I say this because I happened to visit a local Anglican church last Sunday, where the majority of the congregants were Nigerian.  There are an enormous number of foreigners living in South Africa.  When the country became a democracy, our then President Nelson Mandela, opened our borders and the people from up North flooded in. Zimbabweans especially, flocking to South Africa in their millions, in an effort to escape their despotic president with his irrational ideologies.  

Anyway, to get back to my story.  I happened by chance to choose a Sunday when, not only was the priest being installed by the Bishop as the new Rector, but it also happened to be the day the congregation had decided to hold their annual  
monitory drive, in order to collect the much needed money to offset the deficit many churches find they have, at this time of the year.  

A very bossy lady dressed in a black and white uniform came to the front.  Pointing to a large round receptacle standing in front of the altar, she proceeded to half cajole, half chastise the congregation into coming up and placing their "paper" money into it.  

She had everything worked out to the last detail.  First came
the men's forum, followed by the women's association, the local Nigerian community, the choir, the teenagers, the young altar girls in their red dresses, the tiny tots and finally the visitors.  This whole procedure took about an hour to complete.

The men's forum danced their way to the front two by two. Shiny, pointy, black, patent-leather shoes.  New brown leather ones and grey suede, crocodiling their way to the front. All cultures have a distinctive way of dressing and Nigerians are no different.  Traditional dress for the men are fancy pajama-like suits, and so dancing to the front were black and red checks, floral creations with white yokes, white linen with black embroidered trimmings, gold ones, bottle green ones, and glittery diamond shapes on a blue background.  Down the isle they pranced, bobbing and weaving from side to side, to the accompaniment of a man on a keyboard and a woman singing very upbeat songs, which would not be out of place in a Mexican or Cuban bar. 

Then came the turn of the Women's association, who were all dressed in the same black and white uniforms as the bossy lady at the front.  The leader was a young woman who advanced forward with much backward heel kicking.  She shrilly blew on a police whistle to the beat of the music, whilst mercilessly smacking into submission, a small leather cushion attached to her right hand by means of a piece of elastic.  Pow! pow! pow!  She looked as if she was having the time of her life dancing and whistling and beating the cushion to death.  I felt quite envious as I thought of my own staid and controlled existence.  I seemed so 
incongruously out of place there.

On and on they went, dancing and singing and slapping their money into the wide, open mouth of the expectant bowl.  This might have gone on all morning had the Rector not intervened when the bossy lady tried to get the Men's Forum to come up for a second time.

What struck me forcibly was how few women were in the congregation in proportion to the men.  I do however have it on good authority, that women in Nigeria seem to be second class citizens.  The word which comes to mind is chattels.  I was told, that the men can do as they please with their wives. I was also told that the function of the wife it to bare the children, cook the food and look beautiful.  A bit like a trophy wife.  The dresses which Nigerian women wear are something to behold though.  Full length, snugly fitting creations in brightly coloured floral or geometric patterns.  Matching head pieces twisted this way and that to form beautiful regal adornments.

Finally, three hours later, the pageantry came to an end and we were ushered into the hall for refreshments.  I sat down at a table in the middle of the room, only to be told by a man with a large badge on his lapel which said "ASK ME", to go and sit in the one corner with a bunch of old whites who looked as if they had been ferried in from some frail care centre in an old age home.  When I asked why I had to sit there, he said it was because they had prepared special food for the whites.  He seemed a little apologetic when I said I didn't need special food and I was white.  On looking around the hall, I realized that we had all been categorized into men, women, black and white.  So, so sad when we are desperately trying to escape our ugly, segregated past.  I decided that I was not going to have some man in zooty PJ's tell me what to do, so I excused myself and went home.

  

It's not how he died, it's how he lived!

Many people go through life in a state of semi-consciousness, more dead than alive.  Many people also go through life living either in the past, or in the future.  A game often played by people living in the past is called "Remember when?" Remember when we went on holiday to the seaside in 1995? A game which can be played over and over again and always with the same predictable outcome.  A comforting sort of game for those involved in it, but tiresome for those who are not.

Living in the future manifests itself when one is dissatisfied with ones present life, and wishful thinking and daydreaming becomes a pleasant diversion.  This of course can reach a stage where a person is unable to differentiate fact from fiction.  The ideal is always to live fully in the present.

I knew a man who lived life this way.  His entire life was spent in the here and now.  When he and his family went on holiday, he would always say, "I'll take care of the outdoor stuff"  This meant that the trailer would be packed with wind surfers, body boards, snorkels and flippers.  He loved holidays.  In the evenings and weekends, he would spend a lot of time drawing pretty boarders around the outsides of postcards.  These would be sent to all sorts of competitions which he invariably won.  Cars, oversea's trips, fridges, watches, bottles of perfume and sunglasses.  His wife said she had a watch for every day of the week.  His theory was that whoever ran the competitions, would not be able to resist the brightly colored boarders, and choose his card. He was a man who lived life to the full and met every challenge head on, except for the one huge challenge, which eventually took his life.

The memorial service was held at a wedding venue out in the country, and far from the madding crowd.  Family and friends and work colleagues assembled in the rectangular building overlooking the large field of newly sprouting, green Spring grass. Under the blossoming apricot trees, stood tables laden with eats for the "after tears" party.  I have it on good authority from one of my friends, that this is what it is known as, in many of the South African cultures. 

The service itself was a very simple affair.  No prayers, no hymns, just seven people giving their eulogies on the life of a husband, father, brother, friend and colleague.  Each person had the same story to tell.  A man who loved life. A man who had a zest for life.  A man who when he walked into a room, brought the sunshine with him.  A man who never had a bad word to say about anyone.  But alas, as they say in the classics "All good things must come to an end," and this sadly happened when he developed a motor neuron disease, which robbed him of his dignity and finally of his life.

The onset of the disease was slow at first.  The loss of mobility and then the slow but relentless progression from stick, to crutches and eventually wheelchair.  The final straw was when he had to go to work wearing a nappy (diaper).  He tried hard to keep cheerful and make little jokes, but this burden proved to be too much for him, and finally, he gave up one day and hanged himself.

One of his best friends made a comment after the service, which I thought to be very profound.  "It's not how he died, it's how he lived."  And indeed, based on his life, he was a giant among men!


    

Yet another funeral.

We awoke to the first freezing blast of Winter, with grey skies and a watery sun doing it's best to penetrate the thick layer of clouds.  The wind with icy tentacles curled it's way into, and under, and over, and eventually through the many layers of protective clothing.  This then would be the day we laid to rest my eldest sister's husband.  My last remaining brother-in-law.

We arrived at the church at the same time as the hearse, and the 30 strong choir from Soweto, who had very kindly been organised for the funeral, by the founder of the company my niece works for. The church was like a deep freeze.  Not a vestige of heat anywhere.  The wind whistled through the one open door and out the other, leaving us huddled together for warmth. South Africa is not equipped to cope with the cold at all.  There are about three really cold months in the year, and most of the time people just grin and bear it.

The flowers on either side of the altar, echoed the floral arrangement on the coffin.  Beautiful shades of cream and white, interspersed with the occasional deep shade of royal purple.  The service was one of great solemnity.  The presiding Deacon was a man who commanded great respect, without seemingly ever asking for it.  He was one of those rear individuals who engender the "Servant Leadership"  quality.  The message was a message of the unfathomable love of God, and how this great love never changes, no matter what.

After the service, we slowly snaked our way through the centre of town to the new cemetery situated on it's outskirts. Funerals are big business in South Africa, and Saturdays are the most popular burial days.  Despite the terrible weather, the cemetery was awash with funerals.  At least ten were taking place simultaneously.  There were cars coming and cars going, and there was quite a race on for the remaining parking spots.  At one point we got into a traffic jam and I felt it necessary to jump out of the car and and hold back some of the 4 x 4's, so that our little party could reach the freshly opened grave of my late sister.

With the freezing wind blowing straight into our faces, we all stood around holding onto one another, while the Deacon recited the committal.  The undertaker released the brake of the lowering mechanism and as my brother-in-law slowly made his last descending journey to join his "one and only", my sister, we were transported to another time and another space, as we listened to the angelic voices of the choir singing "How great thou art".  All I can say is, The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.

No hitch-hikers please

Once while holidaying on the South Coast my father picked up a hitch-hiker.  If my mother had been with him, this would not have happened, as she had strictly forbidden my father to ever pick up any hitch-hikers, but sadly on this occasion she wasn't there to put her foot down with a firm hand.

My father was quite gregarious at times and almost always helpful when it came to strangers.  The young man had only been in the country for a short while, and my father taking pity on him, unwisely gave him our farm address. Imagine his surprise when a few weeks later, there on the doorstep stood his new best friend - the hitch-hiker, who eventually ended up staying for three years!

This was quite an interesting period for us, as farm life can be pretty lonely.  He played quite a nice game of tennis, a fair hand of bridge, and turned out to be a good riding companion for me.  He did however have stints of working in the metropolis of Johannesburg, as well as being able to wangle his way into numerous odd weeks spent on the farm. He often worked a double shift for a week by conning some poor fellow into working a corresponding double shift, thus enabling him to jump on a train, which deposited him at a station situated in the tiny town ten miles from our farm.  

He never did a single thing around the farm, except sleep, smoke, eat, ride, shoot, and make us laugh, especially my mother. The only time my father asked him to do something, which was to shoot the "sacrificial" Winter cow, he made such a bad job of it, that my father had to grab the gun from him in order to finish off the staggering animal.  

On occasion, he would go with my father to the local cattle sale.  This was a wonderful meeting place for all the farmers, who were just ordinary hard working individuals.  He came back from one of these sales, and told my mother that the only difference he could see between the speculators and the cattle, was that the speculators wore hats.  This had my mother rolling around.

One day three years from the time he rolled up, and without any warning, my father ordered him into the truck, threw his saddle into the back and dropped him off at the nearest cross roads.  I think he was as they would say in Afrikaans "gat vol", which is actually quite a rude term, but there you go. We never heard another peep from that quarter, but life then became a lot more uninteresting and we had to make do with one another's rather predictable boring company.  Ho Hum!

My brave old auntie dies!

My Auntie was the youngest of six children in her family.  As one would say in South Africa " A late lamb".  As so often happens with the baby in the family, she took on the responsibility of caring for her ailing mother at the tender age of eleven, and thereafter continued to care for a great many people.  As each person she cared for came to the end of their lives, so she would turn her attention to the next one. There was an endless stream of people from parents to parents-in-law, siblings and friends, and finally her own husband.  

When my Auntie became old and frail, she looked around to see who might take care of her, but unfortunately, that kind of dedication is a rare commodity.  I am sure there were times when she felt very neglected.  We all did what we could, but life in today's world is very hectic.  

I received a call from my cousin P, to say that she had come to the end of the line, and had been admitted into the high care section at the local hospital.  I immediately went to see her, only to be confronted by the specter of death.  I could see she was literally days away from dying.

I went each day to see her, but was never quite sure how much she was able to understand of what I was saying.  I found myself feeling quite emotional as I talked to her and told her what a wonderful aunt she had been, not only to myself, but also to my sisters and cousins.  I found myself weeping out all the pain and hurt and sorrow of past deaths, while I told her how much I loved and appreciated her.  At one point, she slowly lifted her right hand a cm or two, which allowed me to slip my hand under hers.  Ever so slowly, she curled her fingers around mine, and at snails pace, drew my hand up towards her heart.  I knew then with certainty that she had heard me, and this was her way of saying, I love you too.

Her funeral was quite different from the other two funerals I had attended the previous three months.  Being almost ninety four when she died, most of her friends had long departed this world, and so in attendance were close family members including her daughter, my cousin J, who had travelled from America to pay her last respects to her feisty mother, a few members from the Retirement Home, as well as the odd person from the Rotary Anne club, where she had been a member for fifty years.  The flowers on top of the coffin were bright and cheerful, and reflected my auntie's positive outlook to life.  I sometimes heard her say,  "I'm feeling a bit down today, but I will talk myself out of it," which she usually did.

Almost the entire family from my mothers side have been buried in the same cemetery.  My grandparents, my parents, two aunties, four uncles and my big sister, and so it was to this place that my auntie made her last journey, to be lowered alongside her late husband.  Once the committal had been completed and the last of the Rose petals had been sprinkled into the open grave, we left her to figuratively speaking, join the rest of the gang for one large "heavenly party".  My phone had gone off just as I was about to throw a handful of petals, which prompted my cousin P, to tell me a story about the time his phone let loose in the middle of a funeral service. Unbeknown to him, his teenage son had downloaded an interesting ring tone onto his cell.  At a most inopportune moment the mourners were greeted by a very loud and lively " I like to move it, move it.  I like to move it, move it".  Such is life!

Funerals and such like!

I had the privilege of attending a very beautiful funeral service yesterday.  Gentle and dignified.  Beautiful violin music, and befitting tributes to what appeared to be a remarkable woman.  What caught my attention was a collage of many pictures of her from babyhood, through school and into courtship, motherhood and beyond,which were being played out on projector screens at various points in the church. What really captivated me, was the amazing smile on her face.  Hardly a picture being flashed on the screen was devoid of this beaming, sunshine smile.  I can imagine that she was a person who lived life to the full, and met any adversity head on. I salute her!

I went to a funeral once held at Doves Funeral Parlour.  It happened like this.  I was asked by my doctor friend to do a spot of visiting at one of the many Retirement villages.  I poked my head around a couple of doors before I eventually decided to visit an elderly one legged lady.  Mrs K and I didn't have an awful lot to talk about, but I faithfully carried out this duty for some years.  One of the things I did manage to do for her, was to enable her to walk off with first prize in the Fancy Dress competition, two years running.  The first time I dressed her up as a giant pea-pod, encasing her in green crepe paper, and somehow attaching green balloons down her front. The second time I dressed her up as a mermaid.  Being one-legged, it was a piece of cake.  I wrapped a roll of heavy tinfoil around the bottom part of her body, ending off with a nice big tail.  Long strands of bright yellow wool, stitched together into a sort of wig, completed the getup.

It appeared that she had no relatives, or if she did, they had long been written off, or had long written her off, as the case may be, because when she died, it was me who was phoned one morning at 6 am.  The funeral I was told was going to be at 12 noon the following Tuesday.  I duly set off early, so as to be in good time, but was caught up in the most horrendous traffic jam.  Eventually I rushed into the funeral parlour at seven minutes past twelve.  "Is the funeral just starting?" I asked  "No" replied the organist, "we've just finished."  "Did anyone come?"  I asked.  "No, only you, but it was a lovely service."  I walked up to the coffin and ran my hand over the shiny wood. It really worried me that I had been the only mourner, and I had missed it.  The organist sensing my anguish and confusion, walked over to me and said "I ll tell you what, you can take the flowers and give them to the Old Age Home." I picked up the flowers as best I could and transported them to the Home in the back of my car.  Not being able to find anyone to give them to, I artistically draped them across a large stainless steel tea trolley, then I beat a hasty retreat.  I imagine the tea lady took it all in her stride, and having been inundated with many such arrangements prior to this, probably just tipped them, without a second thought, straight into the trash.

Workshops and other playthings!

One of my favorite places to play as a child was in my father's workshop.  It was like Aladdin's  cave.  Bolted onto his main workbench was an enormous vice-grip, and underneath the bench were all sorts of exciting things, including pieces of wood in all shapes and sizes.  There were small block like pieces, which could be turned into make believe cars.  There was many an occasion when my cousin from the next door farm and I would construct roads, and tunnels, and bridges in a large pile of sand, which was going to be used in the building of our new house.  We would drive our "cars" round and round and up and down, and through and over, for hours on end.  I have three boy cousins of the same age and each one in turn were wonderful playmates, all with their own unique way of making games exciting,

In the centre of the workshop was a gigantic Anvil.  It was bolted to a large log, which in turn was embedded into the cement floor.  In the left hand corner was an old Forge, which was used from time to time in either mending or refashioning parts of farm implements.  My father would light a coal fire in the centre of the Forge, and I would be allowed to turn the handle which worked the bellows.  I don't know why I found this to be such an exciting activity, but for me it was thrilling to watch the piece of steel gradually turn bright orange, before being placed on the Anvil and hammered into the required shape.  Most farmers relied on their home grown skills, as money was often in short supply. Welding apparatus and circular saws were stock in trade.

One of the exciting games my father invented to keep me out of his hair, was to give me the task of cleaning the engine of one of the tractors.  He would pour some petrol (gasoline) into a jam tin, and give me an old rag and a small paint brush.  I took this job very seriously, and made sure I brushed the petrol into all the oily nooks and crannies, before wiping them clean with my rag.

My father however, did have this strange idea that you were taught lessons on the job.  If for example you happened to be messing around under his workbench, while he was clamping something into the vice grip, he would accidentally on purpose allow the handle of the vice grip to fall through the hole and hit you on the head.  He would then say "Ahhh, you must take more care and watch what you're doing!" He also had this strange idea that we all had to be toughened up by going through hardships.  My poor misguided father had no conception that resilience and confidence only come about through love, kindness, acceptance and the building up of little people.  It would take me many decades to undo the damage of his strange philosophy. 

Rain - the lifeblood of Africa.

Rain has always been the lifeblood of farming communities. Without rain, the dams remain empty, the crops of Maize, Sorghum and Sunflowers shrivel up, become stunted and die.  If the grass, being the staple diet of all the many animals, both domestic and wild, which roam this beautiful continent of ours grows badly and drys out far too quickly, then we are in trouble.  Everything depends on the amount of rain we receive.

I have a friend in Germany who laughs uproariously whenever I excitedly exclaim "We had wonderful rains last night".  In countries where rain is not an issue, and very much taken for granted, it's almost inconceivable to get excited over a thunder storm, and yet I do, and continue to do so, except for the time it rained without ceasing for three solid weeks.

The water table rose to the point where the ground around my house was like a water logged sponge.  There was nowhere for the water to go any more, and so it just remained on top of the ground nestled between the lengthening grass. 

I received a call from a client of mine who had bought a house from me a few years previously, to say that her furniture was floating around in her sunken lounge!  On inspection, I saw a lot of bubbles emanating from the middle of the room.  An underground Spring, which had remained dormant for a long period of time, had been thoroughly awakened by this extended period of inclement weather.  A crack in the floor had allowed it to spring into action and bubble up into the house.

Mozambique, a country adjoining the vast Kruger National Park was almost entirely under water.  The huge rains from the middle of the continent, found their way down to Moz via the Limpopo river, with devastating results.

The urge to live is very strong in most of us, and this was brought home to me as I watched images on television. People struggling through waist high water, in order to board one of the far too few Helicopters.  Scenes of people huddled on top of the roofs of their flimsy houses, together with their children and a few rescued livestock.  People hanging on to trees while the water relentlessly swept by with the odd pot-bellied sheep, legs stiffly pointing skyward and lips pulled back in a deathly grin of white teeth.

The most miraculous story to come out of Mozambique, was the one where a pregnant woman went into labour and gave birth to her baby while clinging to the branches of a tree. Fortunately, her husband was there to help her.  Any woman who has given birth to a child, would marvel at the enormity of this feat.  There she was for the whole world to see, semi naked, and tightly clutching her baby, while the hovering helicopter winched her to safety.  Amazing! 

We often look at the human factor when disaster strikes, but not much is devoted to animals.  Pets might be considered worthy enough of being rescued, but cattle and sheep and horses etc., tend to take a back seat.  One picture on the TV will tug at my heartstrings for the rest of my life.  It was a video of an Ox who had somehow managed to anchor himself against one of the pillars supporting a bridge.  He was completely submerged except for his nostrils, which desperately moved in and out, in and out, in....and out.  My heart bled for that animal, so intent on staying alive, but... in all honesty, for how long?  Anyone's guess.

Snapshot of an Autocratic Priest.

There he stood, like a large vulture ready to attack it's prey. Shoulders hunched and head tucked firmly into his neck, eyes scanning the scene before him.  He always demanded absolute conformity, for after all this was his church and he could do what he liked with it.  He had been appointed by the Bishop, therefore all those under him had to do and behave as he instructed.  Ahhhh!  Here come the little girls in their long red dresses with frilly white collars.  He smiled inwardly. It had taken him four long years to reintroduce this particular ritual, together with the ringing of the bells during communion.  It felt so satisfying to have got his own way at last.  How does the saying go again?  "Softly, softly, catch the monkey".

He had had many uphill battles, but after all he was God's anointed, and as such, all that he did by way of changes, he was sure, were smiled on and approved of by God.  His eyes came to rest on a particular parishioner.  One of those hard-headed individuals who refused to do as he had commanded. He knew the showdown had to come soon, and when it did, he also knew who would still be standing at the end of it. After all, he thought to himself, I am the chosen one.  I am the one to take this church in the direction which causes me to feel most comfortable.  I will have no renegades in my congregation.  Most of them have been winkled out, just this last difficult customer, clinging to this place like a limpet clings to a rock. 

His gaze came to rest on the new assistant priest.  What a find!  A pastoral care genius.  All that stuff which he found so boring and irritating, could be smartly pushed her way.  Now he could focus on the things he really enjoyed doing, like gardening and reading obscure and ancient writings.  He loved to show off his intellect, by quoting in his sermons snippets of information gleaned from the lives of long dead saints.  He seldom saw the puzzlement on the faces of the sheep in front of him.  After all, these were his sheep, and as such, surely they must come to know his voice!  "The Force be with you", and the knee-jerk response  "and also with you".   "No, no, no, that was terrible, lets try it again.  THE FORCE BE WITH YOU"  "and also with you" sheepishly bleated the battered and bruised congregation.

The funeral of a young man.

Funerals! Sad occasions at the best of times, but especially so when the person is relatively young, and the promise of better things to come is cut short.  All their earthly efforts lying on the ground in dust and ashes.  One doesn't mind too much when the person is old and daily living has become a real challenge.  It is then that we are much more likely to welcome death with open arms.  Sad? yes.. but not overwhelmingly so.  More a mixture of sadness, tinged with a good dollop of relief.

On this particular day, I attended the funeral of a young Jewish man.  A friend of my son's.  I have attended exactly three Jewish funerals during my lifetime, and I am always struck by the simplicity and reverence of the ceremony.  No flowers. No singing. No sitting in a synagogue.  No eulogies.  Just the bare bones. 

Standing in the foyer, I see many lists adorning the walls with names of people who have "passed on".  Passed on I think is such a funny way of saying died.  It's almost as if the person is sitting in a half-way house between life and death.  I didn't die, I just passed on, and here I am sitting in the "passed on" station, waiting for my train to come in.  I think perhaps it is a way of softening the blow of death.  In my country it is common practice in the black culture to say that the person who died is"late".  Late for what we may ask? Definitely not the funeral!  Different countries and cultures have unique ways of doing things, and we need to be respectful of this.

Back to my Jewish funeral story.  With a clang and a clatter, the lift on the one side of the foyer opened to reveal a pine coffin, draped in a black cloth, and lying on a steel gurney.  It is from here that the journey to the graveside begins.  The Rabbi, a small gentle sounding man starts the proceedings with a prayer for repentance, followed by a prayer of long life for the family.  Eight men are asked to come forward to push the coffin to it's final resting place. This is a somber affair, traversed in almost total silence, and broken only by the jolting and rattling of the gurney, as it rolled down the stony path.  

A small breeze ruffles the leaves in the trees, and a few purple flowers drift gently down and settle quietly on the ground.  Even they seem to know that this is a reverend moment.  We stop once more, and listen to a psalm being read in Hebrew, with a synopsis given in English.  More men come forward for the next leg of the journey.  Two more stops, more prayers, more replacements and then we are there, standing beside the open grave.  The coffin is unceremoniously lowered into the hole, by means of ropes.  Once the final prayers are said, a male member of the family, in this case his half brother is asked to shovel three spadefuls of soil into the grave.  The clods of earth make a hollow sound as they hit the coffin.  His mother and siblings weep quietly, as all the men take turns at filling in the gaping hole. This now is the last resting place of their beloved son and brother.