Sweat is pooled on my upper lip from the bike ride down the flooded roads which took me from my own small community to this new one. Here is where my friend’s family lives, here is where the celebration is happening. Leaving our bicycles under a shady tree we visit the homes of those he knows from childhood. On the edge of one compound, surrounded by a small mountain of ground nuts sits a woman whose eyes shine pure white from underneath he sagging eyelids. She moves methodically, breaking open the shells of the legumes on the hard concrete beneath her. I sit on a plastic tub that once contained margarine, fielding questions as well as I can from those in the compound. Eventually the drums call us away, leading us to a small open patch of dirt and into a crowd.
Seven men march in a circle around a small pile of leaves and branches. There is also a small goat. It’s legs are tied together tightly so that it can do nothing but stare, eyes wide, at the circling group wielding knives and horns while the drummers beat furiously in the background. I stand among the children. They are calm as the energy grows in the space before us. When the knives swing downwards, they do not look away. I do. Two gunshots ring out loudly from next to the crowd. The green leaves of the pyre now dripping red. Slowly, each man bends down, hands tucked behind his back, drinking from a hollow gourd full of a cloudy liquid which sits next to the sacrifice. Then they begin to dance. Around and around the pyre, some spin, others move slower from the weight of many years of dancing. Eventually they start on their way, leading a parade of which I feel the only somber member, towards one of the compounds we have just come from.
Here is much of the same. Except where I am made to squat is merely feet away from where they let the blood drip onto pieces of the new yam. The elders offer me to drink from the calabash they all sip from, hopefully they were not offended by my knee-jerk reaction to decline the clouded water inside the dish.
There is a sound like a drum with no echo which rings out in no particular rhythm over the community. It is the sound of large pestles hitting the bottom of the hollowed-out tree trunks which hold slices of the newly blessed boiled yam. At each house, women surround these giant mortars, breaking the very smallest pieces of the yam down so that it comes together once again in a completely new texture. This is fufu. This is lunch. This is a meal to be worked for, sweated over, and shared with all who we know as family in this small place. I am glad to dip my fingers in the boiling liquid, letting the heat of the pepper singe the back of my throat long after the plate sits before me. The warmth of the food and community sits deep within my stomach as we leave this place, riding our bikes to the next community, passing by a small clinic focusing on maternal health where I hope to volunteer during my time here.
The sun just about to begin its descent when I pulled my bike up to the front gate of my compound. Strapped to the back sits a pile of eight yams which were gifted to me by several people along my journey. I do not know yet what I will do with them. For now they sit in a pile in the corner of my room, next to the plastic barrel which holds the water it is safe for me to drink.
I cannot pretend to understand or appreciate what I have seen. My stomach will never stop turning in summersaults at the memory of the day. The sounds of struggling goats resonates in every corner of my brain. But, while I cannot understand, I also cannot judge. I cannot pass judgement on these people, on their rituals, on their ways of life. The joy and excitement of the day is palpable in contrast to the dark cloud I fear hangs too low over my head. I try to bat it away, to paste a smile over the uneasiness which is plastered across my face. So for now I hold my place on the outskirts as a silent observer, focusing on the people, not the ritual, the joy and togetherness that each festival breathes new life into. This will not be the last time my brain has troubling understanding what is before my eyes. And for that I am grateful. There is much to this world that my tiny bubble butted up against. There’s so much more to the human experience than the western world I have called home for so long. I hope to feel uncomfortable as often as I feel anything else.
So far this has held true.
I suspect it will remain that way.
Han in Dagombaland 