MANNTALK: Convoluted by polygamy

I buried my grandfather a fortnight ago. When grandfathers who are knocking a century die it’s not really a sad occasion, is it?

It’s more like an honour to bury the old chap. Men those days seemed to live long abundant lives. Mine fought in a World War, posted in Israel and Egypt. He – Jackson – also married about four wives who bore him about 18 children, who had about 45 grandchildren between them. Four wives! I’m surprised he lived that long with four wives. In fact, he outlived three of them. Having one wife sometimes feels like you are drowning in molasses … now imagine four!

When you come from a family with 45 grandchildren there is a possibility that you don’t know half of them. I have numerous cousins, spread all over the place. My relatives, as you can imagine, are spread across many geographical boundaries. And we don’t meet. It’s hard enough to meet your siblings in the city where everybody just does their own thing, now imagine trying to meet 45 cousins! And that’s just the official ones. (Ha ha.)

STRANGERS AT A FUNERAL

The only time people meet now is during funerals. If you come from where I come from, funerals last many days. (My grandfather was buried after three weeks!).

So for a few days prior to the funeral people mill about and sit under tents and drink bottled water and the old men sit in groups deliberating on something or the other and different church choirs show up to sing in that way that makes the leaves on trees shimmer.

There are old women in shukas in the verandah who squint at you and ask you if you know them and you can’t say you don’t know them so you lie that of course you know them, but they don’t let go of your hand just in case you are thinking of escaping and they persist and ask you to tell them who they are, and you pause and wait for the ground to open and swallow you up but it doesn’t.

If you wander behind the boma you will watch the third cow being felled in a bloody spectacle. Or a goat. Or sheep that hang from a tree, being skinned by a guy who is high from local brew. At the graveside are also more high chaps digging mzee’s grave at night. Then there are the odd village drunkards who walk around crying, lamenting how lonely they will be now that mzee has gone and if you ask someone, “who is that?” they will shrug. Professional mourners. Hand them ugali and some beef and they will cry the whole day and night, of course aided by some alcohol.

There are always so many people you don’t know. Funerals are also where some people meet new people.

You can always tell the visitors who aren’t relatives; either they are too light-skinned or too slim or they have a floppy hat on and some ankara dresses.

Feel free to show them the other graves in the backyard. I remember sitting down under this tree with some of my cousins and one of my brothers – Jim, the lastborn – looked at a group of young pretty ladies walk by in their black tights.

And my brother, still actively hunting for a spouse, asked, “Who is that girl?” in reference to one of the girls who was in the group, and one of my cousins answered, “Boss! Are you mad, that is Jennifer!*” And my brother asked, “Who is Jennifer*?” and my cousin replied, “ That’s Auntie Christine’s* daughter.” And for a moment horror hang between us. The hot little thing was our first cousin!

Imagine if he would have run into her in a club in Nairobi and offered to buy her a drink and started chatting about something nonsensical like Facebook or Twitter or whatever thing younger people discuss when in the throes of seduction and maybe she would have liked him because he plays rugby and he has a strong firm chest that he wouldn’t mind resting her head on.

Then one day during pillow talk after coitus (look at me, too shy to write the “s” word), she mentions that she buried her grandfather recently and he tells her that’s odd because he also buried his grandfather.

And they realise they both buried their grandfathers on the same day and when he asks her where her shags is (because in the city those details come at the very end) she mentions his shags and he props himself up on one elbow to face her, his face white as sheet, and he asks her with his heart pounding fast who her father is, and she mentions the name of his uncle. Then he promptly faints.

I think the moral of the story here is that polygamy is complicated. And that one day someone will just end up dating their cousin. If they haven’t already.