My uncle Othuol is dead. Village ‘pathologists’ and ‘pundits’ attributed the cause of his untimely demise to either sexual indiscretion or lwet dhano (sorcery).
Now, he was one man who was superseded by his reputation, a mean fellow who seldom had warmth in his voice. On the day he was to going to join his ancestors, the weather seemed rather gloom.
His eulogy, like that of any fallen Luo, was a spectacular ceremony. We don’t just hand over printed literature with nothing more than the deceased’s official name.
We call it timo neno. It is the highlight of any funeral. Of course there are always those who will care less, as long as there is feasting. It is through eulogising the dead that we get a heavy dosage of a family’s secrets, from the ‘cursed’ to those who just couldn’t keep their tools zipped or tucked in their panties.
Back to my uncle. See, during his days, monogamy was a bad joke, so much that a man with one wife could not speak freely in drinking dens where polygamous men quaffed their preferred poisons - actually there was no other option besides chang’aa! Uncle Othuol had two wives; the audacious and painfully candid Truphena Akeyo and Anyango puothe tin (with a small shamba), as he fondly called his second wife.
Come eulogy time and the tents were bursting at the seams. Even wagogni (married women in the family or clan), who are known to wail incessantly, pricked up their ears. Everyone knew the family was full of drama and expected nothing more than a thriller.
Protocols were observed, friends and family spoke and as is customary, the first wife spoke last. Akeyo rose from her seat gracefully. Her co-wife had showered the dead with praises, even feigning a few sniffles for effect.
“Oh death, you monstrous shadow! How I wish I could hate you right now. But how can I, when my husband has finally met his match? Your bony hands have snatched him and saved me from his unending wrath. What a great loss!” she chided.
“I am a Christian and my God abhors liars. Othuol was ill-tempered and selfish...even in bed!” she exclaimed. From where he sat, their son Omuoma, who was the eldest, cringed and fidgeted uneasily. Apparently, in his drunken state before making the final bow, the late Othuol would question whether Omuoma really was his son.
For a suspected bastard, Omuoma was a sorry thing. He was obese and often incoherent. He had his father’s jutting jawline and his mother’s ears. He was however a witty lad and brilliance flowed in his veins.
“Damn!” He muttered under his breath, bowing his head as if to hide from the curious eyes that had suddenly zeroed in on him. “Could this be why Awuor refused to marry me and instead chose that lousy good-for-nothing herbalist? Did I inherit my old man’s poor performance in bed?” I assumed those were the disturbing thoughts running through his head.
His eulogy, like that of any fallen Luo, was a spectacular ceremony. We don’t just hand over printed literature with nothing more than the deceased’s official name.
We call it timo neno. It is the highlight of any funeral. Of course there are always those who will care less, as long as there is feasting. It is through eulogising the dead that we get a heavy dosage of a family’s secrets, from the ‘cursed’ to those who just couldn’t keep their tools zipped or tucked in their panties.
Back to my uncle. See, during his days, monogamy was a bad joke, so much that a man with one wife could not speak freely in drinking dens where polygamous men quaffed their preferred poisons - actually there was no other option besides chang’aa! Uncle Othuol had two wives; the audacious and painfully candid Truphena Akeyo and Anyango puothe tin (with a small shamba), as he fondly called his second wife.
Come eulogy time and the tents were bursting at the seams. Even wagogni (married women in the family or clan), who are known to wail incessantly, pricked up their ears. Everyone knew the family was full of drama and expected nothing more than a thriller.
Protocols were observed, friends and family spoke and as is customary, the first wife spoke last. Akeyo rose from her seat gracefully. Her co-wife had showered the dead with praises, even feigning a few sniffles for effect.
“Oh death, you monstrous shadow! How I wish I could hate you right now. But how can I, when my husband has finally met his match? Your bony hands have snatched him and saved me from his unending wrath. What a great loss!” she chided.
“I am a Christian and my God abhors liars. Othuol was ill-tempered and selfish...even in bed!” she exclaimed. From where he sat, their son Omuoma, who was the eldest, cringed and fidgeted uneasily. Apparently, in his drunken state before making the final bow, the late Othuol would question whether Omuoma really was his son.
For a suspected bastard, Omuoma was a sorry thing. He was obese and often incoherent. He had his father’s jutting jawline and his mother’s ears. He was however a witty lad and brilliance flowed in his veins.
“Damn!” He muttered under his breath, bowing his head as if to hide from the curious eyes that had suddenly zeroed in on him. “Could this be why Awuor refused to marry me and instead chose that lousy good-for-nothing herbalist? Did I inherit my old man’s poor performance in bed?” I assumed those were the disturbing thoughts running through his head.
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