Day four: A funeral

The day started with sad news: the neighbor’s wife died in the night, unexpectedly. Moussa explained that we will have to change our plans for the day. No weaving. Instead we’ll go spend time with the grieving family and help dig the grave. Doing otherwise would be an unfriendly gesture. One could always skip and apologize later, but if you expect that people will come dig the grave and celebrate the funeral for you, it is important that you do the same for them.

Moussa dressed to work so I did the same. I surprised myself thinking that for a funeral, my stained pants wouldn’t do, but we’re going to dig, so I guess one has to dress appropriately. Moussa’s fiancée brought us breakfast before we go. It’s Tau with peanut sauce. Tau is a paste made from maize or millet that has been pounded into a flour. The flour is mixed with water and cooked over charcoal or wood while constantly steering. It’s a pretty hard job that women are extremely good at. My shoulder strength is put to shame by the youngest women here. To eat Tau, you have to break small handfuls away, and dip it in the sauce du jour (peanut sauce two thirds of the time). We eat Tau everyday, breakfast, lunch and dinner. It’s pretty good. One gets used to it.

The kitchen in which Tau is cooked everyday

Breakfast swallowed, we walked fifteen minutes to the neighbor’s house. At seven am, there were already quite a few men, sitting in a circle in front of the property’s main entrance. The women were inside the compound, crying loudly, giving me a pretty sad feeling. The men were silent. We sat with them for a while. Only the noise of the daba hitting the ground beside us paced the morning.

Moussa stood up and gave me a look saying I should go with him beside the grave. Two young guys were inside, digging with huge energy. A crowd of 40 must have been standing around the grave, all young guys waiting for their turn. Once the workers climbed out of the grave covered in sweat, they would be replaced by another couple. Everyone participates to his ability. It’s Moussa’s turn. I understand by the looks that people in the croud are joking that the white guy should dig as well. I gesture that I can. I take my shoes off. Noooo. White people can’t do physical exercise, one tells me. It’s OK. Thank you, thank you. “You know, digging is difficult” one explains to me. I didn’t insist.