The Graveyard

Mapula grudgingly accepted my plea to take a walk into the hills behind our home. I have a desperate need to explore but not the security to set off on my own. After the rains of the week and an extended bout with what the locals refer to as “runny stomach” I was getting antsy trapped in my room, and an intense feeling of “village fever” made me need to find room to breathe. Eventually, pulling Mapula away from a game of cards, she relented on the condition we walk to the graveyard.

I feel redundant always talking about the beauty of my surroundings so I will limit my lamenting to the observation of seeing my village from an entirely new vantage point: just after the rain, from the top of a hill, affording a large panoramic of the dam mirroring the mountains, resting behind it. I gain a whole new appreciation by viewing the area from above.

Upon reaching the graveyard we found the area deserted with the exception of a large brown and white spotted cow complacently munching weeds from the burial sites of so many villagers. The graveyard reminded me of the cast off remnants at the end of a rummage sale: each burial plot had a number of items left for the dead ranging from plastic flowers, coca cola bottles, tin plates, letters, etc. Many of the graves were either unmarked or signaled with plastic crosses printed with black marker: the deceased name and dates of life. A few of the graves had large marble head stones and one even had a red cement bible sculpted open above it. I curiously moved to see the symbolic passage placed above the head stone but the page was blank, perhaps that passage hadn’t been written yet.

As Mapula visited her aunt’s grave I walked through the cemetery reading what tombstones were available. I was struck by how recent so many of them were. Among the dozens of graves not one was more than 10 years old, most less than five, some still so new that the cement over them hadn’t even began to accumulate any type of gray, weathered look.

I found the graveyard to be a good research point to see how afflicted the village population was with disease and other tragedy: most of the dead were younger than my parents, many more barely older than myself. The proclaimed “elder” of those deceased was in her early sixties. It was not a good sign.

I walked to Mapula who was pulling weeds from her aunt’s grave. I joined her, though it struck me as fruitless, since the weeds were abundant and with the multitude of rain I knew they would sprout again tomorrow. Still, I knew it was important to her, this weeding process, this need to feel control over something. I saw myself, my reasons for being here, in the same light: trying to fix a problem much bigger than my ability, knowing that more difficult situations would arise tomorrow, but still needing to feel that I have some control, that I made some small difference.

After, as we walked away, me feeling somber and defeated, Mapula asked:

“Do you still want to walk to the dam?”

“Yes, of course.”

She twisted her face into a displeased grimace and raised her tone as she said:

“Awww….you always want to go to the dam. Dam addict.”

I laughed at her unknowing use of a pun and felt complacent once more.