Among my mother’s people. When we bury our women, we like to hide a little tune, a little song in the casket with them. Sewing it into the white lining – completely invisible. Something to keep them company. A useful tool in that journey – to keep the usual detractors; fear, loneliness, sombreness at bay. A bribe they can use, when they get to PCEA Matuini parish. A little something they can push into St. Peter’s hand and beseech him to let her pass. Or, if they find the big man at the gate, perhaps even his son. They can tear open the lining. Unleash it. Break into it;

Ĩi ndĩ mũtumia mwĩtigĩri Jehova

And the son, grateful to see yet another of the good ones, calls his father aside.

“Dad, wacha huyu apite!”

Typically, we make sure it’s a song they loved. When we are sliding the tune in, we are careful not to let the children see it. We shuffle them away. Asking one of the more senior Guild women to take them away.

“Wa Shiro, chukua hawa!” It won’t do to have little babies having their last image of mum being an ashen face, with cotton balls for nostrils.

We spray copious amounts of whatever perfume she liked. Typically, something one of her children bought for her, for Mother’s Day. And then, we step back. The priest steps forward – to bless the casket. He – a liturgical purist- mumbles something in Latin; sprinkles water, and causes his deacon, to walk around the casket, wrapping it in a fragrance of incense.

The mass, thus ended – Her fathers, uncles, brothers, and even sons come up. Each taking a little corner of her small home.

“Nyita hau! Shika hapo” The older men command.

We carry it. Walking her one more time to the earth.

Ĩi ndĩ mũtumia mwĩtigĩri Jehova

And there, on her land – and if she was not so blessed, her father’s or her senior brother’s land. We make her home. It is exactly the way she liked it. Edges straight, corners sharp – 4 layers of banana leaves at the bottom, so it almost floats. With a cotton, blue and white crocheted cover from her church friends, on top of her forever home.

All the while singing, reminding our Jesus of who this is – mũtumia mwĩtigĩri Jehova!

And then earth upon earth.

Later, when the neighbours, choir women and extended family have left. When the village drunks have resumed their drink. And the only reminder of our devastation is a slight mound over the earth.

You can still hear it. Especially when it’s quiet – a little song, keeping you company.

Ĩi ndĩ mũtumia mwĩtigĩri Jehova

Sleep easy. Koma thayu maitu!

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PC: GPT 4o

Shoutout to Hope and Njoki for reading this in draft – appreciate it!

• Fiction