I’m facing about 200 people I don’t know and wondering how I will be able to deliver my message without choking up. I am the only white person at this funeral. That is the norm for my husband and me because only a minority of whites will venture into rural African communities. Thus we are treated like royalty, given seats at the front of the gathering, and asked to speak a few words. Knowing this I have been formulating my thoughts over the past few days but when faced with delivering them I feel myself overwhelmed by the tragedy that has brought me here.
The last village funeral we attended was almost joyous. I have never heard so much laughter at a funeral as tales were told about the elderly woman who had died of complications from diabetes. Her family was strong and well off by village standards and she had been popular.
This funeral is the opposite. Olana, a boy whose fifth birthday had been celebrated just six days earlier, fell into a dam near the house and drowned.
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