The day Tadeyo Matuwani’s spirit departed from the world, Chigoma village awakened in solemnity. The sun hung low, shrouded by clouds heavy with rain, as if the heavens themselves mourned with the earth. The air was thick with the aroma of maize roasting on open fires and the faint, sharp tang of kambuzi peppers being crushed for the evening’s meal. It was the season of plenty, yet the villagers were drawn together not by harvest but by grief.
The compound was alive with motion as mourners streamed in from near and far. The women, wrapped in vibrant chitenje, moved with purpose, balancing calabashes on their heads and children on their hips. Men clustered under the msangu trees, discussing everything but the funeral itself, their voices low and steady like the rumble of a distant storm.
Funerals in Chigoma were more than farewells; they were grand stages where family names were tested. A family’s honour hung in the balance, judged by the magnitude of their generosity. For Kamunkhwala, the eldest son of the late Tadeyo, this day was more than a memorial. It was his chance to demonstrate that the Matuwanis knew how to honour the dead.
By midday, a large number of the mourners had gathered under the canopy of the great chiyombo tree that stood at the edge of the village, its branches casting wide, comforting shadows over the proceedings. The funeral rites began with somber hymns, their melodies carrying the weight of generations. Tears were shed, praises sung, and stories told of Gogo Tadeyo’s wisdom and stubborn resolve that had kept his family strong through droughts, famines, and even the arrival of the missionaries.
The village compound was alive with activity. Women stirred nsima in giant pots over roaring fires, their faces glowing in the heat. Men gathered in small groups, their voices low and serious, as though laughter itself was taboo. Children darted between the huts, their laughter a jarring contrast to the somber occasion. Kamunkhwala moved among the mourners like a river cutting through a field, calm but with an undercurrent of power.
Yiliwaka arrived early, adjusting the chitenje around her waist. She wasn’t close to Tadeyo, but she had come to witness what the Matuwanis would do. She had heard whispers: chambo from the lake, nkhwani cooked with groundnut flour, and the tantalizing promise of a cow and countless chickens slaughtered in Tadeyo’s honour. She placed her small offering of dried groundnuts at the communal table, feeling a pang of shame at its insignificance.
When the meal was announced, a quiet hush fell over the crowd. Platters of steaming nsima, steamed rice, lyonnaise potatoes and fried rice were laid out, followed by bowls of nkhwani, glistening with groundnut sauce, chicken tikka, cut beef and mounds of tender chambo. The trail of aroma was intoxicating, a blend of spices and tradition food. Kamunkhwala’s younger sister,
Luwiza, moved gracefully among the guests, urging them to eat their fill. Yet, it wasn’t the chambo or the nkhwani that captured everyone’s attention that day. It was the kambuzi.
Among the mourners was Mr. Chigoga, a wiry man with a reputation for mischief and a tongue sharper than any knife. As the bowls of food were passed around, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pouch. Inside were kambuzi peppers, their fiery red hue glowing like embers. Without hesitation, he added a handful to his portion of nkhwani. The pungent aroma of the kambuzi wafted through the air, drawing gasps and murmurs from those nearby.
“Is this how you honour the dead, Mr. Chigoga?” someone whispered, half in jest and half in awe.
Unperturbed by the murmurs, Mr. Chigoga took a bite, his face breaking into a satisfied grin. “Ah,” he declared, his voice cutting through the whispers, “a meal without kambuzi is like a story without a lesson—dull and easily forgotten.” The mourners erupted into subdued laughter, their grief momentarily eclipsed by the audacity of the man and the humor of his words.
The other mourners watched in astonishment. To bring one’s own spice to a funeral meal was unheard of, a bold move that could be seen as cantankerous and disrespectful. But as the meal continued, something remarkable happened. A few brave souls asked for the kambuzi, their curiosity outweighing their caution. Soon, the peppers were passed around, their fiery taste igniting not just the food but the spirit of the gathering.
Kamunkhwala, observing from a distance, felt a wave of unexpected gratitude. At first, he had been annoyed by Mr. Chigoga’s audacity, but now he saw the effect it had on the mourners. The peppers brought warmth and life to a day overshadowed by grief. The laughter and chatter grew louder, filling the compound with an energy that felt almost sacred.
“The Matuwanis know how to honour the dead,” an elder declared, nodding approvingly as he wiped his brow. “Even the food carries the fire of life.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and crimson, the mourners began to disperse. Yiliwaka lingered, her heart full of unspoken emotions. She thought of the kambuzi, of how it had transformed the meal into something extraordinary. It wasn’t just the food or the peppers; it was the act of sharing, the way the fire had united them all in celebration of Tadeyo’s life.
When she finally rose to leave, Yiliwaka glanced back at the msangu tree. Its branches stretched wide, silhouetted against the darkening sky. It stood as a witness to their grief and their joy, a reminder that life, like fire, must be shared to truly be felt.
In the end, it wasn’t the chambo or the nkhwani that people remembered most about Tadeyo’s funeral. It was the kambuzi and the warmth it brought to their hearts, a testament to the resilience and unity of the village. For in Chigoma, even in mourning, life burned bright.
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Image: Dall-E