I remember my mother once saying that no parent should ever have to bury his or her child, that nature wasn't intended to work that way. I agreed wholeheartedly, thinking what an incredible injustice it is that children ever die. Although I still think it a terrible loss every time one passes away, we are surrounded by friends here in Burkina Faso for whom the death of children is halfway expected. Depending on what statistic you read, up to one out of every three children dies before the age of five. Consequently, most families have been touched by the death of a child at one point or another.

Today I went to the funeral of one such child. The older brother of the guy who drives the donkey cart that delivers construction supplies to our house (we're practically related…) had a child pass away late last night. Being friends with many in this family (although not the father of the child in particular), I felt compelled to head down the hill this morning and greet the family.

The funeral took place under a mango tree in the family's courtyard. When I arrived, my friend Renaud told me first to pass by the body. They had set the child (my guess is a one-year-old) up on a chair and wrapped him in bright colored clothes. Because of the position of the body, he seemed to be dozing. I found it hard to believe that this little person was dead, that he would not be soon waking up to toddle around the yard. An older woman, possibly a grandmother, was seated nearby, moaning quietly. I dropped a 10F piece (roughly $0.02) onto the pile of 10F pieces already on the ground and made my way back to a small group of men.

Although sound had seemed to die away when I stood looking at the dead baby, I reawoke to an incredible racket assaulting my ears. The men among whom I stood were wailing as a kind of mournful counterpoint to the angry-sounding shouting of a leader who repeatedly announced the death of the child. We were stationed right next to the xylophone players, men who keep up a steady rhythm from beginning to end of a funeral. I respectfully made my way among the men, handing out my 10F pieces to uncles and to the father of the child (10F is the customary way to show respect at funerals).

They then did something I'd never seen before at a funeral. On some cue that I (a not-so-observant observer) missed, all the women who had been sitting under the trees hopped up and rushed to surround the baby. They were not dancing as they normally do, but rather they were milling around wailing with their arms in the air. All the men crowded around the xylophones (Dagara funerals are not for the claustrophobic of heart), and the volume of the wailing rose. An uncle soon left the men and waded through the crowd of women to pick up the body and carry it away from everyone else. The wailing continued for a few minutes longer until (based on yet another cue I missed) everyone simply stopped and walked away. Cheeks were wiped of tears, hands were shaken, and everyone simply went their separate ways. While I've been to quite a few funerals, I've never seen one end like that.

For the Dagara, funerals are the single most important cultural event, far outstripping births, weddings, or initiations. Consequently, funerals in general will likely make a later journal letter (how's that for a teaser?). The funeral I attended today was noteworthy really only in its brevity. The length of funerals (whether one, two or three full days and nights) is based on the age of the deceased - the longer their life, the longer their funeral. What struck me was that this child got about 2.5 hours, and that was it. Finished. Yesterday's playmate is gone, having becoming one of those one-in-three.

One in three.

It really isn't all that fair. However, that's the way it is. I need to ask you today to pray for my friends. This child went back home to be with his Father. The baby's parents, were they to follow him today, would likely not follow him. Pray that God's spirit would move in mighty and powerful ways to save his children, young and old, among the Dagara.

Andy

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