The Death of Old Woman Kelema
Print this Page- By Kris Holloway
- Country: Mali
- Dates of Service: 1989–1991
Excerpt from Monique and the Mango Rains: Two Years With
a Midwife in Mali by Kris Holloway.
The airy hollow sound of balafons and earthy beat of
drums had started at 4 a.m. Monique explained that Nampossela's
oldest woman, one of the Kelema clan, had died in the night. The
Kelemas, at least the men, were blacksmiths, and the blacksmiths
had strong and ancient ties to the féticheurs,
perhaps due to their work with fire and the forging of iron for
tools and weapons. In the villages, the blacksmiths were the
poorest of the poor, but what these families lacked in financial
power they made up for in sacred connections to the supernatural
world. It just so happened that the Kelemas were an enterprising
lot. They invested in a blacksmith shop complete with welding
torches and a generator that operated their tools. Gone were the
hand bellows and crude hammers. They had done so well they owned
several mopeds. In short, they had the magic and the money.
Old Woman Kelema timed her death well. If she had died during the
planting or harvesting season, or even last month during Ramadan,
the village would have postponed the major celebration. They all
wanted to party together. Her status, and timely demise, ensured
a spontaneous, full day of festivities: une fête of
music, dancing, and feasting.
Monique and I closed the clinic early; there were no patients,
since everyone was at the funeral. We walked past the
fête in the village center on the way to Old Woman
Kelema's home, located in the oldest section of the village,
close to the stream and surrounded by enormous
néré and baobab trees.
"We must give our sàya fòli—death
greetings—to her family, the benedictions one gives when
someone has died," Monique said as we walked. "I'll tell you some
common ones: Allah ka hiné a la—May God have
pity on the deceased." "Allah ka ye fisaya ma —May
God put him in paradise." " Allah ka dayoro
sumaya—May God cool his resting place..."
"Wait, stop. Let me memorize these before we arrive, so I at
least have something to offer." The same blessings were used no
matter what religion the person practiced. I stopped walking and
repeated them to myself as Monique waited, chuckling at my
earnestness.
The compound was as packed as Koutiala on market day. Men sat in
clusters drinking dòlo, and kids ran about in
packs. Younger women were cooking large cauldrons of rice and
sauce. There was talking and laughing, but no crying. A lone
white sheep, soon to be killed and eaten, was tethered to a stake
near the entrance.
Under a large straw hangar, an open-air structure with a thatched
roof, old women were gathered, ancient women in fact. A couple
were fat and substantial, but most were frail, the sagging skin
almost sloughing off to the ground. I could place the faces of
about half. Many of those over 70 or 80 stuck close to their
compounds. Unless they came out for a special occasion, like
today's, I did not see them. They sat in a rough circle while
girls tended to them, bringing tea, kola nuts,
dòlo, and bowls of food.
I was so besieged with greetings that it took me a couple of
seconds to notice Old Woman Kelema. She was lying in the center
of the circle on a mat, wrapped in pagnes, except for
her hands and feet. A large woman held her left hand as she
talked to the corpse.
A girl came up with a chair and a wooden stool. Monique took the
stool, and as soon as we were seated we were offered
dòlo and food. I declined. I could not imagine
eating, or drinking, and found my eyes going back to the dead
limbs. Monique accepted rice and meat, swinging Basil off her
back to feed him small, pre-chewed bits.
I had attended my first funeral just months before going into the
Peace Corps. My maternal grandmother had been my favorite
relative, despite her intense dislike and fears of my impending
work in Africa . She was the first dead person I had ever seen. I
remembered standing in front of the casket during viewing hours,
wanting to make some special gesture of parting, but I couldn't
lay a hand on Granny. I could look at death, in a sky blue dress,
but could not touch it.
The wrapped parcel that had been Old Woman Kelema seemed so
small, hardly capable of holding the remains of a life. The same
large woman continued her monologue, holding the one limp hand. I
couldn't make sense of the Minianka but thought I could get the
gist: Where we have been, where we are, and where we are going.
Where you have gone. We will follow.
Monique nudged me after eating, signaling that she was done and
we could begin our death greetings. Monique gave hers and then
spent a couple of minutes "introducing" me (everyone knew me, it
was a formality) before I gave the one greeting I had memorized,
the one that spoke to me most on this hot, dry day: "May God cool
her resting place." The old women who could hear me responded
with "Aminas" and nodded.
"Monique, am I expected to hold the old woman's hand?"
"No. Why, do you have something you need to tell her?"
She had a slight smile.
"No, I was just wondering...."
"You said your benediction. To the living. That is enough. Soon
it will be time to take her to the four quarters of the village.
More people will say goodbye before they run—I mean they
truly run as they carry her above their heads—to the
cemetery. There she will be buried, and her last serving of
tŏ will be placed on the ground beside her."
Later, after dinner, Monique and I followed the sound of the
balafons back to the Kelema quarter. Old Woman Kelema,
wrapped in an old straw mat, one arm still exposed and dangling,
was held high in the air above the heads of four men. Some people
approached, reached up, and swung her hand to the music. Her body
dipped and swayed in ways it had not in years, I was sure. Women
put their hands to their mouths and yipped and hollered.
People began to dance, and as they did the strangeness began to
fade. I had never lived so close to death. Death here was not
quarantined, something that took place only in slaughterhouses
and hospitals, that only occasionally escaped in the form of car
accidents. It was in every home, all the time. And for a person
to have lived this long, in a place where life is frequently cut
short, it was truly something to celebrate.
"Monique, let's dance with everyone."
"Oh, no, Fatumata, you go. Your Monique can't dance."
"What? You can't dance? I don't believe it," I said, grabbing her
hand.
"My feet don't move like that," she said. "Even as a child, I
could not dance."
"Come on," I pleaded. "It's never too late to learn how to
dance."
She bent over, allowing me to pull her arm, but her feet remained
planted.
I looked at her and saw what amazingly looked like shyness.
"You go, Fatumata," Monique said.
I looked at the stamping and swirling feet, dropped her hand, and
entered the dusty fray. I loved dancing—the faster, the
better. I had trouble keeping up with the intricate rhythms, but
I was quick. My feet pounded like the hooves of panicked beasts.
I spun and spun, the crowd pushed back as my arms swung and my
derriere pulsed. The crowd went crazy. They created a circle
around me, pointing and cheering. One woman came forward, grabbed
my hand and raised it high in the air. She let out a shrill cry,
and others joined in. Children laughed at me, and men and women
smiled and shook their heads. Panting, I rejoined Monique.
"Pati, Fatumata, you have given them a sight they will not soon
forget."
"Next time, you're coming with me," I responded.
About the Author:
Kris Holloway has used her background in writing, public health, and development to further the mission of numerous nonprofits and educational institutions, including Planned Parenthood, the Western Massachusetts Center for Healthy Communities, the University of Michigan, Springfield College, and the Greenbelt Movement International. She currently works with the National Priorities Project, a nonprofit organization offering citizens and community groups the tools to shape federal budget and policy priorities that promote social and economic justice.
Monique and the Mango Rains is supported by the Literary Ventures Fund, a not-for-profit, private foundation that supports literature and public discourse about literature's role in society.