Death’s Stewards
All six feet of my grandmother’s grave was dug in four hours, give and take. The digging was to start at ten in the morning, but some arrived as early as eight. By nine, it was a full affair. Young men from the neighborhood gathered around the grave, each waiting his turn to dig or shovel the soil. Those who waited had a weird type of banter. But that was the way with them, they insulted each other often. They lived for it. They looked forward to it. No insults meant you were not part of the crew. It was beautifully chaotic.
The crowd grew as they dug deeper. We, the bereaved, distributed cigarettes and sweets among them. I asked where this tradition came from, and my cousin said it has always been that way. But people won’t just dig six feet of soil for sweets, cigarettes, and later rice; they come mostly for the camaraderie. However, I know of three people who never miss this kind of occasion. They are Peter, Githinji, and Maina.
I spot Peter as he arrives, amidst the chatter. Peter can not stand straight due to a deformity in his spine. His feet are crooked and when he moves, it’s like he is about to squat. To the best of my knowledge, he has never set foot in a classroom. He was always locked indoors when we were young. Every time my cousins passed by his home they’d hear his grunts. His parents had tried to hide him from the world like you would a miscreant. But they eventually let him out. They had to.
Sometimes I think all those years spent in solitude might have sown a burning desire for human interaction in him. Now he has a quick mouth. You’ll hear him before you see him. He replies fast, with some of the best comebacks I’ve ever heard. And he rarely misses a grave digging.
Peter stops right next to us, then looks us up and down, probably deciding whether we could be fucked with.
He nods at my cousin and asks, “We ri, ni guka ukire kana ni thimu urahuriirwo?”
(Did you just come or did they have to make a phone call?)
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He moves on to the next person. Some guy I’d seen around. Peter asks him why he’d worn his best shoes to attend a grave digging. They jostle a bit and the guy finally runs out of patience.
“Nii Fita no nguguthe uru muno!” He threatens to beat him.
To which Peter replies, “Ndo ki njoe unjurage!”
I first met Githinji was when my uncle hired me as a shopkeeper after high school. Laughter comes to him easily, but more like a way to cope with his anxiety. His right thumb is forked into two. So he has two small, underdeveloped thumbs on one hand that appear fused together. He has a habit of greeting people with so much energy — he will raise his hand so high up for a handshake, then bring it down with so much force, that you have to brace yourself for it.
Rumour has it that he once got arrested during a routine evening patrol, but the cops released him before they got to the station. On the way, he’d allegedly told the cops they could never arrest him. They could arrest other people but not him. That there’d be repercussions if they took him to the station. “Give me that gun and you’ll see why,” or so he said.
All in all, he’s a happy lad. Even owns some goats. He’ll help with tasks like trimming hedges and clearing bushes to make the place look well-kept for those who’ll come during the funeral. His only shortcoming is that when he sees you with a beautiful girl he has the guts to ask whether he can take her home with him.
Maina is short and stocky. He is the silent one, mostly because he can’t form coherent sentences, and he stutters when he tries to, but he will listen when you speak. His head has the oval shape of an egg. His eyes are big and with a faraway look as if he has a place he disappears to. My brother told me that people scatter when he removes his shoes, but this time he had an old pair of white Pumas that looked pristine.
He’s mysterious. Few people know where he’s from or his relations. Every time someone dies, he camps at their home with a change of clothes and stays until the deceased is buried. During night vigils he’s known to dance all night. This way, he always has a place to stay and something to eat. Death is his friend and it rarely leaves him behind.
