I recently looked at some statistics about “life expectancy” in Africa.  Most sub-Saharan countries in Africa were on the decline, many of them below 40 years, only two had an increase, and one of them was Uganda (which is one of the few countries in Africa that has taken a pro-active role in fighting AIDS).  AIDS was and is making its impact on the length of life in Africa.  In the West, especially in the USA, death is something that for most is seen as distant, something in the future, and when we are young we even imagine that it might never happen to us.  Whereas in Africa it is part of the ever-present reality of daily life and as such deeply affects the way people live out each moment, each day and each year of that is given.  In the West we have doctors, hospitals, pharmacies and there is always a pill, a treatment that causes us to get well.  In Africa, there are hospitals and doctors but just yesterday I read where 80 some percent of all medicine intended for patients in hospitals in Uganda never reached them but was sold in private clinics instead.  Simple things, that take a visit to the doctor and some follow up treatment can mean death in Africa.  All of this is reflected in what I refer to as the celebrant style of life of the African.

A child is born in Africa and the family celebrates the occasion with a feast, people come from all around, they travel from the cities to up-country where the celebration is taking place.  Food and drink abound, names are given to the child reflecting the family lineage and the future, giving the child a name to live into.  Then there is the coming of age, something that is not so much measured by age and dates, but by seasons, time passed and maturity.  The Akamba tribe of Kenya has a most wonderful naming ceremony that is celebrated by the whole village.  The child is given a Christian or Muslim name and their African name, but all of it becomes a celebration of life here and now.  It does not matter whether you have little or lots of money, the moment in time; the person is celebrated in ways that are quite different from the West.  Gifts are given, words are spoken, times are remembered and tales of old are told again and again all against the vibrant background of Mother Africa.

Marriage is a celebration of life between two people that is not just an event where you go to a church, a place and partake with a few hours of your presence, but marriage in Africa takes on life of its own, there are get together of families, clans and friends to make the celebration possible, the sharing of resources, of energy, of time, labor, money and more.  People come from afar and near, eating and drinking that lasts not a short time but literally becomes a feast that one can look back to and recall with joy.

Death comes to us all and to Africans it often comes sooner than later.  In some countries 25% of children never reach the age of six, malaria is still the number one killer of all sub-Sahara Africans with AIDS coming up fast.  There is typhoid , bad water, starvation, fevers of all kinds, leprosy and much more.  Death is a matter of reality to Africans; it is not something pushed off into tidy funeral parlors with their slumber rooms with the thought that it will never happen to me, but something see in everyday life.  Africans are keenly aware that it could happen at any time, that is why no moment is taking for granted, instead there is the celebration of the here and now, the joy of the essence of life, life is seen as a gift given to each one to be used to the fullest.  Laughter is seen as a tonic in the midst of disease, poverty and what would seem hopelessness. There is an understanding that life is to be celebrated and when death comes, one gathers with family, clan and community and celebrates the life that has gone on.  There is strong connectedness to the ancestors and their lives are told, retold to the children and grandchildren, celebrating their time on this earth in the physical realm.

When I lived in  Uganda I used to drive from downtown Kampala toward my home in Makindye along Entebbe road.  There were the casket makers, stall after stall of wooden caskets ranging in size and decor.  The traffic was stalled and I decided to take a stroll.  I parked my car on the side of the road and walked down the hill to the shops.  People were picking out caskets for their departed loved ones.  I was immediately approached by several of the merchants about buying one of their finer models and they were disappointed when I informed them that I was simply taking a look.  I watched a family pick out a plain wooden casket, haggle over the price and load it on the back of a bicycle headed for home.  (Bicycles  can transport most anything in Africa)

It was one of those sacred places one encounters in life.  Here I was, just off Entebbe road with its bustling traffic, people moving all around me, buying and selling and yet one felt that the people who were there wanted to do something special, something their loved ones could be remembered by, There was activity, but there was a quiet spirit of hope in the people around me.  One of them invited me to their house for the celebration of the life of a woman who had just died that morning of AIDS.  I felt kind of awkward, but there was a curiosity and I went.

I sat on one of the few chairs outside of a modest home made of mud bricks, surrounded by some Matoke plants (banana) and drank a Nile Special while people came and left, shared, brought things, took things and I sensed that there was not a hopelessness that I had often witnessed at funerals in the West, but there was something of a hope, that they were celebrating a chapter of a life that had just begun in a new realm. 

An old woman came and sat next to me and started to talk.  “Tomorrow I am burying another one of my children.  Today I am celebrating her life and tomorrow I will bury her body, but I will always remember her as the one who knew how to live life in this hard country.  She is still with us, like all of my ancestors, she is with us and today we celebrate since for her there is no pain, no worry about food, war or any evil things.  Today she is born new and some day I will join her.  We will miss her, we cry, we grieve, but most of all we celebrate her life.”

My life often becomes one of routine, of doing the same things over and over again.  Getting up, work, going to bed, getting up and doing what I did yesterday, over and over again. My two daughters came on Saturday to celebrate my birthday and we had a meal, cake and there I was sitting, laughing, enjoying the presence of two of my kids and was reminded, that there was more to life then simply motions and doings, but was life was meant to be celebrated.  Life may be longer for us here in the West than in Africa, the quality of life may be lesser there in terms of things, material possessions, but when it comes to quality of life, the African, who lives with the presence and reality of death, knows how to laugh and celebrate today…jon