Some Zambian Cultural Experiences

I’ve been blessed with two opportunities recently to experience the culture of black Zambians in ways that I haven’t seen before. Both were also signs that these folks want me to be a part of their families, which I am considering an honor.

The first was last Thursday when I was invited to attend a funeral for a friend’s elderly aunt. Funerals in Zambia are multi-staged affairs. They begin with an all night gathering at the funeral house, meaning the home of the deceased. I didn’t attend this part, of the proceedings, but my friend did and didn’t sleep much. The next stage, which I also missed, was a brief viewing and collecting the body at the funeral home. Then comes a church service. This part I did attend, but before we could go my friend had to help the mourners (most of whom don’t own vehicles) get from the funeral house to the church. There were so many mourners crammed into her aunt’s small house and garden that she had hired two medium sized buses, which we had to meet and direct to the funeral house (most neighborhoods have a maze of poor quality dirt roads that aren’t well marked, and this neighborhood was no different). Another bus and truck provided by another relative also met us there.

The funeral service was in a Reformed Church of Zambia church, which is a branch of the Dutch Reform Church, brought up by white settlers from South Africa. There was a sermon (on the story of Lazarus), some prayers, a brief life history presentation, and lots of singing. I was impressed by the significance of women in this church. The church ladies, dressed in white blouses and dark skirts, were the entire choir and also acted as pall-bearers. Additionally, the pastor was a young Zambian woman.

After the church service we caravanned to the grave site, in a large cemetery that sadly is almost full. A couple of canopies had been set up for shade. The casket was lowered into the grave and there were several brief speeches and prayers, all in Nyanja. Then the male mourners took turns burying the casket, continuing until there was a high mound of dirt. Then the relatives were asked to come and place roses and wreaths on the grave, starting with the closest relative (a sister who was a tribal chief) and continuing in groups through children, grandchildren (many) and cousins. This went on for quite some time, but a lovely covering of flowers resulted (see picture), and church choir ladies accompanied all of this with beautiful songs.

The second event was that Saturday I was invited to join my neighbors in a celebration of the opening of a new farm on a piece of land that they had purchased near Chirundu, a town about two hours drive from Lusaka, on the border with Zimbabwe. While I hesitated a bit due to the transportation method (see below), I decided it would be a fun way to get out of town.

We all woke up quite early (4AM) and then ended up waiting for hours for the medium sized truck to arrive to take us there. We all piled into the back along with rented plastic chairs and the food and drink for the party. We then spent another hour or so zig-zagging through Lusaka picking up various relatives and their belongings, helping the ladies climb into the truck, and figuring out who was going to sit where. We picked up more relatives on route and so by the time we arrived at the farm we were a bunch of hot and tired sardines.

The farm land hadn’t been cleared yet but had some nice looking livestock and several traditional structures built with thatched roofs and set amongst a sparse grove of trees. These were mostly open walled buildings, which served various purposes such as gathering places, kitchens, hen-houses, or grain storage facilities. The neighbor kids gave me a tour of the livestock which included cattle, sheep, goats, chickens, pigs, ducks, and guinea fowl.

In addition to those of us from Lusaka and the farm staff, various locals had also come for the party. There were over 100 people there, most keeping out of the hot sun by cramming into the shade of the various structures. There was a plan for a ceremony including traditional dancing and a presentation by the local chief, but we had arrived so late that things had just become a free-form party instead. There was chatting, drinking, eating, and some dancing, accompanied by a steady back ground of drumming from a couple of young men. Most conversations were occurring in Nyanja, but people were very friendly and would sit and chat with me in English or offer some explanation of what was going on around me. I am picking up a few Nyanja words, but not enough to get the gist of a conversation yet.

In the late afternoon we began packing up for the return ride. The negotiations for space took even more time than in the morning because there were various folks at the party looking to catch a lift for a few kilometers or more. But it was sorted out mostly by the leadership of one cousin from Lusaka, and we headed off, zig-zagging our way back to Lusaka and arriving quite wind-blown, tired, and dirty at about 9PM. I certainly missed the comfort and safety of a passenger car with seatbelts, but it felt great to be doing something the Zambian way.