By Foster Benjamin:
Last Monday, we buried Kado Zinjani in Salima near Dedza Kirk Range.
It was a funeral where Gunde, a Gulewamkulu dancer, took centre stage.
Gunde took on a somewhat monstrous shape: wearing a nondescript Nyau regalia patterned with a million rags; his face gigantic looking like a mask of roughly polished woodwork. It was frightening.
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Majestically, Gunde walked into the house of sorrow apparently to pay his last respect to Kado, the man who, until his death, was a watchman to our friend Lexa Mambulu in Area 49, Lilongwe.
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Shortly after, Gunde stepped out, and came to an abrupt halt closer to us: his watchers.
Gunde’s monstrous face shot upwards, idly looking out to the nearby Dedza Kirk Range, as if invoking some mystic powers from the naked hills.
Seconds later, he launched into huge, menacing steps. He was heading into the dancing arena. In the very instant, Gunde burst into a mad-like dance, kicking dust into our spellbound eyes.
In his shadow turned a few admirers, four or five of them, each holding out well-worn K50 notes. The notes were awaiting Gunde’s tortoise-like fingers to make a good catch. And, sadly, it was a catch that never landed into his not-so-greedy fingers. Instead, the admirers’ K50 resigned into a battered plastic plate placed under.
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Then, much to our surprise, Gunde pulled off his stunts: hitting the ground harder with his colossal face, the full thud echoing and echoing. For the first time, I felt a strong kick of grief in my stomach, the grief for Kado who was still lying in his house awaiting his burial late in the afternoon.
Kado couldn’t be buried in the full glare of the sun. So I was told. Why? He was once a traditional leader. Way back in 2014. In Mayani, Dedza. He was answering to the name Village Headman Kumitambo. But the lure of Lilongwe was too irresistible to bear. It had cost his chieftaincy. He had passed the reigns to his cousin for the Capital City dream.
Now Gunde hit his face in the ground for a second time. Then, a third time, still mesmerizing us. What followed next chilled us to the bone. Within a fleeting moment, he slumped himself-whole to the ground like a useless bundle. Apparently, as if not weighed down by his heavy trappings and face, Gunde gathered himself and sprang into his ashen feet. He was soon charging towards mourners under a malnourished tiny tree. As everyone scattered, in their laughter, Gunde leapt into the tree and fiercely slammed it twice with his face; violently shaking the tree, leaving its miserably tiny roots in a sorry state.
We were on a verandah of a thatched house adjacent to the house of sorrow, all along capturing the gory moments of this performance.
From his victim—the tree— Gunde bounced back in a rush, catching us—and the reed-door beside us—unawares. In one breath, he kicked the door down, and with it followed shards of bricks and mud. They rained around the shoulders and backs of the unlucky few. A cry issued out forthwith. Unconcerned, Gunde jumped back into the dancing arena, and stomped up and down in unspoken rage, breathing more fire.
More laughter and cheering escorted him, apparently living out a love-for-the-beast moment.
Presently, Gunde’s retinue burst out running with two pails of water. They swiftly poured water on him.
“They’re cooling him off,” someone told me.
“Cooling him off?” I was too inquisitive.
“Yes, because he’s fiery and wild. He must be doused in water. Or he’ll wreck more havoc. We know him, sure.”
After allegedly cooling off, Gunde skulked back to his lair among the bushes near the graveyard.
In moved a youthful one sporting a hippie outfit. Shy-looking, he danced slowly, oozing pride and order, attracting no eyes. In fact, our eyes were still fixed on Gunde’s lair beneath those bushes in the edges of the graveyard, where Kado would soon journey to. Like the unsung hero he was, the hippie dancer slipped off unnoticed; and, in his place, two “sisters” stood out, all of a sudden. The two-sister act quickly seized our hearts and souls. The “sisters,’’ in their shining wigs, danced provocatively,’’ their partially-exposed masculine legs betraying them. A handful K50 and K20 notes fell around them. As soon as they hit a finale, in their shadow stepped another dancer whose manhood was all but a plastic bottle.
He was wearing a horned helmet, and his bare-back was all charcoal and grease. In his froggy dance, he charged towards women, pressing his bottle-manhood hard, issuing out “urine”, baptizing the women in gay abandon; and the women, instead of turning angry, ululated in sheer ecstasy.
Moments later, eulogies for Kado came outpouring.
His brother, Sinkanawo Thakolambuzi, spoke well of Kado as a humble man who passed on the chieftaincy to a cousin “when the chieftaincy was too sweet a job.”
Group Village Headman Kalonga eulogized that Kado exemplified a true peacemaker, urging all villagers to emulate him, and even ensure that their goats were not roaming in other people’s gardens.
“If you capture a goat in your garden, ask the owner to pay you a fine. If he resists, just hand over that goat to me. I also have strong teeth that can bite meat,” he said, sending us into gales of laughter.
Our laughter was soon drowned out by the hoarse voice of a chief gravedigger, a man in black overalls bearing a cross on its back. He ordered Kado’s body out and gravediggers soon brought it, heaving Kado’s remains on their shoulders.
As Kado walked to the grave, a tear stole down my cheek, bidding farewell to the 78-year old man whose image, and funeral ‘marred’ by Gunde stuck—and is still sticking—in the back of my head.
