Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Death

The night was dark, moonless. Rain was falling in a drizzle as the crowd uneasily passed the time away. It seemed as though a silence hung in the air, stifling the inevitable explosion we all felt coming inside. Then the noise was heard in unison. The strange far off cry. The drunken howl of a father who was bringing his sons body home to rest for eternity. Chills went down my spine, and my stomach tightened in anticipation.
I thought back to the same hour thirteen nights before. The pristine night shattered by the screams, the fighting. My body reacted the same way when I heard machetes called for. Huddled in the darkness, listening to the violence, the savage cries, and then the inhuman sounds like a pig with a cut throat. I remembered my fear that something bad, something irreversible had happened. My suspicions confirmed when I heard the bitter moan of the women who came upon the scene. A sound that is reserved for a cry announcing the death of kin.
The poison had worked slowly through my friend, as it shut down his body inch by inch, organ by organ. No cure for a man who made a rash decision, in the obscurity of the rum dimmed night, to take his own life. Nothing to do for twelve agonizing days but lay in his hospital bed, and feel death creeping closer and closer. When I went to see him his eyes were hallow and far away. He told me he would be home soon and we would play dominoes again, like so many candle lit nights in the past year. The next week I arrived fifteen minutes too late to see him alive.
As the truck pulled in front of the house time seemed to rip off its track and speed ahead uncontrollably. People from all over the village appeared out of the night, surrounding the car, as if hoping to find its bed empty of the coffin and Perfecto alive and well, all of it a terrible misunderstanding. Irving shattered this faint hope. “He is dead. I brought his body” he announced, betraying the rum that was heavy on his breath. The drunken men hurried to move the coffin out the rain and into the dark house. “Matthew, give us a hand here” My neighbor called to me, a horrific reminder that I was not invisible to the madness of the night. I started to regret my return to the village before the morning light.
The coffin was set upon boards in the center of the concrete house with a thud. The room was hot, moist, and dark, smelling of fresh cut lumber with a hint of formaldehyde. The moans of the grieving crowd were beginning to burst into screams. That inevitable explosion was at its breaking point. Flashlights penetrated the darkness in random streams of yellow. I stood against the wall staring at the coffin, my heart racing with the combustion of the room. One of the men that came in the truck was wiping the lid of the rain and dirt of the road. His hand was all that kept it from being ripped off by the increasingly hysterical mob. When he finished, the eldest brother motioned for everyone to back away. The crowed pushed back a few feet, and then the lid was slid down to reveal the face. Explosion.
No holding back now. The truth of the terrible situation was undeniable, and people let out their agony in loud screams and haunting cries. Anguish was expelled with every breath. People rushed the coffin to see and touch the body of their beloved. Several women became so overwhelmed by the pain brought on by seeing the lifeless face that they got caught in violent fits of woe. Screaming, convulsing, having to be restrained and taken to another room to smell a special root meant to calm, then made to lie down, and sleep away their grief. The father became engaged. Yelling words I did not understand. The fear of thirteen nights before returned, and again I wished I was not there. The crowed pressed to him, and blocked both the doors. Other men held him tightly as we wretched and fought against them. I asked my friend what he was saying, “He wants revenge on who he blames for what happen” was the chilling reply. The oldest son again took charge of the situation and stood defiantly in front of him while the others help him. He looked him in the eye though he was several inches shorter and demanded that there be no more death. Eventually he calmed, but not for another hour did his sisters let go his arms and let him walk free, with babies in their wraps hanging on their backs.
The generator came on with a hum, and the room was flooded with sobering light. The lid was replaced, and everyone sat down to begin the long night. They would sit up with the body all night long. Coffee was dispersed, conversations were started, and a game of Dominoes began. People drifted in and out as a preacher from another village began to hold church. He said some words, led a few songs, and even mentioned that he heard that Jesus was coming back on May 21st. Around two I took a walk around outside and found the men drinking rum again and decided to retire to my house for some sleep and avoid any altercations that may come. I slept uneasily as the wake continued just away. The sound of my friend chocking on the poison outside my door haunted me as I feel into my dreams.
The crowd was still there when I woke up at dawn. I was glad to hear that there were no incidents the night before, and the drunken men where just sleeping it off. The light of day delivered its sobriety to the grieving audience, and the villagers came together to construct the tomb atop the hill where the cemetery is, overlooking the football field and jungle beyond.
In the early afternoon the funeral service began. The same preacher from the night before said more words, and led a few more songs. The hysteria was done now, and it seemed that people where beginning to come to terms with what had happened. I saw the benefit of sitting up all night with the body of your loved one. It forces you to accept that they are no longer with us, by being reminded of it constantly all night long, demanding your brain to make the change of world-view, and just let go.
His football teammates entered the room dressed in their uniforms, and shouldered the coffin without warning. This caused another surge of screaming, moaning, and wailing. Once again women had to be restrained and their hand pried off the men carrying the beloved away, finger by finger. I followed the coffin through the hot afternoon across the football field where he would play no more, and up the steep hill to the cemetery where the men were mixing the cement. They placed him in the tomb after one more viewing of his body, and placed wood planks over top, then began to cement over it. I found it interesting that of the two men working to plaster the top of the tomb, one of them was bitter rivals with the father of the deceased boy. He told me later that when something like that happens, it doesn’t matter what happened in the past, every man is expected to pitch in and help in any way needed.
After a few moments of staring at the tomb in silence, we all began to walk back to the village. There seemed to be a sense of closure as we crossed back across the football field. The whole tragic event was finally over, and we could now begin to move on. For the first time in days I felt like everything really was going to be alright. The beauty of life here began to revel itself to me again as children played, and birds sang from the jungle beyond. Then I entered my neighbor’s house, and saw on the face of one of my closest friends here the look of complete hopelessness. I remembered a psychology professor saying the only loss that a human will never fully recover from is the loss of a child. I still know that everything will be alright, but nothing will ever be the same.