In a rejoinder to last week’s Eavesdropper’s ear column on traditional cousinship at funerals SIMON MWALE describes his first humiliation at such a funeral. Read on…

THE Eavesdropper’s ear columnist Potipher Tembo’s piece titled “traditional cousinship at funerals” in the Saturday, December 10, 2016 edition of this paper has inspired this article.
In his piece, Tembo discussed the highs and lows of the cultural tradition of smearing people with powder or mealie meal as a way to celebrate, in a mocking fashion, the life of the departed.
Tembo interviewed or, to put it accurately, eavesdropped on some mourners who condemned the practice as primitive and that it should be abolished while others felt while it has caused embarrassment to its victims, we should tolerate it because it is part of Zambian culture.
I narrate what happened to me for the first time in my life when I attended the funeral of former Zambia National Broadcasting Corporation (ZNBC) marketing director Robert Banda (MHSRIP) whom I knew from our (Industrial Corporation) Indeco days.
Robert was a marketing officer for Choma Milling Company, one of the subsidiaries of the former  42-company conglomerate that was Indeco. I was then a public relations officer at   Indeco House, headquarters of the Group on Cairo Road in Lusaka.
Robert was a chatty, jovial and friendly fellow who, in my estimation, attracted more friends than enemies, if any. I can say, I was a ‘distant’ friend only because we did not meet often enough when he was at ZNBC where he worked last before answering the Lord’s call. But when we did, time well spent was mutual.
His funeral began with a church service at the New Apostolic Church in Long Acres.  I made sure to be on time. I was dressed in a light- blue suit, a tie, and a white shirt to match and gleaming black shoes when I went to the church. I think I was looking smart, probably like the late president Frederick Chiluba (MHSRIP) who was an epitome of dapper dressing.
I wish I had not worn the suit, but then, suits are the hallmark of public relations practitioners who are expected to project a personable and positive image of their companies as, professionally speaking, they are the face of their organizations.
I discovered that this tradition or requirement, of sleek professional grooming, became very much a part of me  to a great extent and there were times, I recall, when some of my colleagues would ask me what had happened if they did not see me in my professional public persona.
“Are you on leave or something?” they would ask when I dressed casually. But this was at Lusaka Water. When I left the utility company (on retirement) and got a part time lecturing job with one of the universities, the opposite happened. I felt embarrassed one day when, used to seeing me in casual attire, I went to the university in a suit.
“Look who is there! Mr Mwale in a suit?” shouted one of my students to her friends. I went close and asked her whether she thought or imagined that I could not own a suit, let alone wear one. Her answer, a stunningly correct one, was:
“Sir, I have never seen you in a suit.” I noticed that colleagues at the university do not often  wear suits and I felt, wrongly or rightly, I might be a square peg in a round hole if I carried the Lusaka Water days (and elsewhere where I worked in PR) and donned suits. So, I occasionally wear suits these days when the fancy takes me.
I was public relations manager at Lusaka Water and Sewerage Company when Robert expired. I drove to the church to join thousands of mourners for the memorial service which went off like clockwork. Soon it was time for body viewing.
Mourners in my line were motioned to view and, after paying my respects, I went outside to wait for the body viewing to be concluded and then follow the cortege to the cemetery for the final journey-burial.
The drama was just beginning!
At some point, I encountered two ZNBC staffers, a man and woman and when they saw me, one shouted: “Wa ku Chipata Mwale. Let’s get him,” meaning they pour beer and smear me with mealie-meal or powder.
But the other, who was more civilised (no offence intended) said: “No, leave him. Although ni wa ku Chipata, let’s look for others. Bengi sana aba ku Chipata.” (Though he is a Chipata boy, let’s leave him alone. There are many of his kind around). I felt relived and safe and inwardly thanked the wise one who had prevailed over his colleague to spare me.
Temporary respite!
Hardly two minutes passed when another set of my traditional cousins both men saw and accosted me. “Iwe ka Mwale, isa kuno. Leta umpiya!” (Mwale, come here. Bring some money) they ordered. The time was about 11:00 hours and my two ‘assailants’ were not only nursing, but putting away Mosi and Castle beers at that early hour. If I say they were sobre, I will be lying!
One of them held a plastic container and, as they were asking for the money, they advanced towards me. “Bring the money Iwe. Leta ndalama!” I tried to explain that I did not have any on me, but that I could dash to my bank and withdraw from the ATM.
Saying this, I produced my ATM card thinking my friends would reason with me, but what did I get instead? They grabbed my hands and I tried to wiggle my way out of their vicious grip but  I had misjudged not only their combined strength, but their evil intention.
“Look I can drive with both or one of you to the nearest bank at Manda Hill and in 15 minutes you will have your money,” I pleaded. It did not matter whether there was any money in the account, but I thought the bait would work.
Wishful thinking!
“You can’t go to the bank at this time, you fool. Atase, uli chipuwa sana!  Can you go to the bank now? It’s too late. You were supposed to withdraw the money before coming here. Uli chipuwa sana! (you are a big fool).”  Swiftly, they started pouring their beer on my head and simultaneously sprinkled the mealie-meal.
Rather than fight back, I resigned to myself to my fate and wished I had taken advantage of the kindness of the first set by avoiding the present duo of cocky Bembas who had a single minded determination to humiliate me in public.
I can’t recall their names now, but if I could, I would name them in spite of   media laws and ethics. I would name them for the record and to warn my kinsmen from the east   to be alert next time they attended a funeral involving Bembas and easterners.
After doing the ‘damage’ they relished with abandon, the two merchants of mischief released me with a stinging warning: “Next time you attend such a funeral come fully prepared. Waumfwa mambala?” with sharp uproarious laughter ensuing.
I uttered no words but pitied the crude and sorry figure I had been transformed into in less than five minutes. My humiliation was complete. By the way, they had enough beer and mealie- meal to satisfy their desire to completely mess me up. I think no less than six bottles of beer flowed from the top of my small head as they ‘stoked’ the ‘fire’ with mealie meal. My jacket, shirt and the upper part of my trousers were drenched completely. You know the sight of a wet chicken, don’t you?
In his article, Tembo used two words to describe those (and himself) who were smeared with powder at the funeral he attended: zombies and ghosts. I was worse than that, what with the smell of beer all over me!
In my comical state, however, I proceeded to my office to go and ask for permission from my boss to go home and change clothes. I therefore could not attend the burial ceremony due to the inconvenience caused by the uncouth tradition.
When I jumped out of the car, some workmates on the premises spotted me and wondered whether I was Dracula who had risen from the grave. Curious onlookers soon filled the ‘arena’ to witness or to hear the disaster that had struck me.
My boss, Dennis Mwanza, who was managing director then, said: “What has happened to you?”
“It’s these confused chaps, the Bembas, who have messed me up. They wanted money from me, but they would not buy my idea of going to the bank since I had nothing on me at the time and soaked me in beer before spraying me with mealie-meal.” Laughter and more laughter from all around me.
In his piece, Tembo said some of the mourners condemned the practice of pouring liquids on mourners before smearing them with powder or mealie meal. I don’t know who started this tradition, but whoever it is does not matter. What does is, whether this primitive tradition which though providing a lighter touch at funerals, demeans or degrades it victims should or can be tolerated. Incidentally, I wasn’t the only casualty at this funeral. I saw someone who, from a distance, looked like former ZNBC deejay Francis (The beat master) Ndovi cutting the unsightly figure of a  spook. Closer examination confirmed he was!
The suit in which I was soaked was permanently spoiled. The laundry where I took it after the incident failed completely to remove the mealie meal from the bottom of the jacket breast pocket where it had settled.
The traditionalists will argue for retention this practice which to me is archaic in the 21st century. The traditionalists should seriously reflect on possible options such as refining the practice to allow the use of powder only instead of our staple food. Nobody should be wet with water and, less still, smeared with mealie -meal.
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