R.I.P. (a note from my sister, Wendy Nyhus)

The village of Nalerigu was nothing but organized mayhem and madness this afternoon.  Not only was it market day but a funeral procession like I've never seen.  Never mind the old lady died over a year ago and the fact that she was married to the previous chief caused for a great celebration.  In the States a funeral procession to the cemetery includes maybe two police escorts on their shiny motorcycles, additional long black cars to transport the family members and even though one cannot see it an ominous overhang of a dark sad cloud.  Tradition has it that one must wear black although I think we've fallen away somewhat from this.  Since it was market day and I needed to purchase supplies and foods for our kiddos at the orphanage I found myself smack dab in the middle of it before I knew what was going on.  My first thought as I witnessed a large lory carring a handful of people down Main Street was "Oh, this is nice…a little shopping music to enhance the experience”…when really the smell from the "butcher" shop would have done more than enough to enhance the experience by itself.  Drums are not unusual but I could sense something brewing in the air and it wasn't my body odor.  As the afternoon wore on so did the beating of the drums.  I noticed more and more people converging and as I made my way back to the lorry I was sandwiched in between a crowd on gawkers.  It was shoulder to shoulder.  Then I noticed one of our own BMC watchman in line dancing with the older chiefs.  I knew he was a chief and started asking what all this was about.  I will admit that I was happy to be in on the party until I noticed the dancing chiefs in line were being replaced with a string of young serious looking men in scrappy clothes carrying what looked to be handmade rifles.  My dear friend Manassah who is essentially my right hand man proceeds to laugh as he looks at me with a big grin.  Then in a happy voice explains, "Now Momma.  They are going to start shooting."  And, just as he says the "sshh" as in shooting a big ole' boom rattled my bones!  Now, why couldn't he have prepared me for this earlier?  I don't know but I about hit the deck.  I instinctively had felt this uneasy feeling before some years ago when I got caught at the South African/Swaziland boarder when a group of political demonstrators tried to sabotage my holiday to the Indian Ocean.  Unintentionally, I grabbed an old Swazi go-go (grandma) and together we hid ourselves under a shelf that is normally used to  fill out immigration papers.  Tear gas was being shot off left and right, people screaming and hollering.  So, once again, yours truly is stuck in the middle of madness but this time it wasn't necessarily directed at any group of people.  One by one the guns were fired into the ground with puffs of dirt flying hither and thither.  I was smart enough to realize that if I was patient I could ever so discreetly (well as discreetly as a white girl can be) make a run for it before the second round of shooting would begin.  Once there was a lull and I verified that I had not been shot I made a run for it.  That run ran me right into a bloody mess of a cow that was being slaughtered as part of the funeral celebration.  I didn't mind it at all except the young men were slicing the cow up right where I like to buy our powdered milk!  Once I got back to the truck and started driving to the BMC sure enough there was another unfortunate cow meeting his death.  I drove away thanking the LORD for two things.  Number one my arm hadn't been blown off and number two I wasn't a cow!  But, please! Won't somebody let that poor dead woman rest in peace?