There was a funeral in Menkassim this evening. We walked through the dark and twisting alleys of the town till we reached the football pitch. The chairs had been arranged to form a giant rectangle, as is customary in funerals and festivals. Somewhere in the middle of the wall of people was a man yelling in to a microphone, but he was barely audible in the general din. People talked, kids chanted and danced, groups of drummers serenaded those near them. We wandered around outside the box of people, which would periodically fill with dancing people, and then just as quickly empty, when the music went off and the man came back to his microphone.
We wandered around outside this gathering, talking to different kids. I did some lady chasing, too; I literally chased some teenage girls around the pitch as they ran screaming like little girls. I traded freestyle raps with a boy, he went first, then cut me off two lines in to my rap because I had cursed. He was obviously deeply offended, and it took much parley and apologies before I had consoled him.
The body was in a big well lit tent on one side of the field. It was surrounded by people, but they formed two corridors so one could walk inside past the body. As I walked inside, two wailing women ran outside past me. There was a casket inside, but the body wasn't in it. Instead, the ex-coach had been stood stiffly against a leaning board. He wore a suit and white gloves, and a soccer ball had been placed in his left hand.
Later, I asked Francis if it was customary for the bodies to be stood up like this. He answered that it depended on the job of the deceased. A football coach or a dancer would be standing. But a secretary, for instance, would sit.
The festival was to be held at the beach village of Asafa. We hired bicycles, put our supplies in two big bags, and took the dirt road that led to the ocean. A river crossed our path. We paid twenty cents to be poled across. The town was soon reached, and I immediately hopped in the ocean, despite the fact that the beach was littered with fresh turds. Later, a drunk elder upbraided me for swimming with out asking permission, and, later still, I took a glass of whisky with the chief himself. He was amiable enough, but told me that the next day he would not be present at the festivities because his wife had died earlier that year.
The festival continued apace, perhaps all the wilder for his absence. We were relaxing in our bamboo pole tent on the beach when we heard drumming and singing passing behind us. We found the parade continuing noisily through the town, marching and shouting to the beat of two boys playing cowbells. Out in front was a man in a traditional grass skirt, swinging a big flag around on a staff. And many of the men had guns which they fired in to the periodically.
We made our way through the village till we reached the center of town. The whole populace was out in force, and the scent of palm wine was heavy in the air. People were going crazy, everybody was dancing and shouting. Much of the dancing was overtly sexual, and, more odd, many of the men were dressed as women, wigs and dresses and even makeup. The parade continued, slowly and unevenly, here it would halt around a dancing pair, there a group of boys would go rush by in a frenzy. A group of drunk youth picked me up on their shoulders and charged towards an opening in the bush at the end of the street. They were shouted down before we reached there, though. Apparently, the rascals had been taking me to a place of bad spirits and evil magic.
The parade continued up and down the main road, gathering energy as it went along. There was a group feeling of utter mindlessness, we danced and chanted to the cowbell as we beat the road to dust until it was gathered like two inches of powdery snow around our feet. I was constantly in physical contact with someone, holding someone's hand or someones hips or feeling some anonymous fingers latch on to me. And the whole time we shouted rhthymic chants to the time of the ever clanging cowbell, I even introduced one that was a hit with the group around me, and we yelled in unison:'Obroni bye bye, obroni bye bye'. Well, the dirt was in our throats but the fire was in our hearts, and we went on and on.
The parade finally broke up and we went to rest on the grass of the football pitch. There many boys and girls snuggling up to each other in the dark, it reminded me of a park in New York. Then we paid 50 cents to enter the official festival dance party. Many kids were gathered around outside trying to get a peep of what was going on inside: a slab of concrete in the middle of dirt lot, and boys in baggy clothing dancing in front of a big wall of speakers. It wasn't Studio 59, but, man, these kids can really bust a move! I sat and watched for a while, and then it was back to our home on the beach. I took off all my clothes and threw myself in the ocean. The water muffled my ears and held my body, and my eyes wandered among the stars.
The next morning we woke to the sound of boys chattering outside our tent, waiting for us, well, for me, to get up. They watched as we packed our bags, took our leave of the queen mother, and mounted our bicyles for home. Thank you, people of Asafa!