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For The Love of Rudolf

“Rudolf has just died”, I barely heard Rose say through the crackling telephone.

 And then…silence. The kind brought on by a deep blow to the heart…an ‘I can’t believe it’ blow, even though we all knew this day was quickly approaching.

 Then, with a sigh of relief, I managed to mutter, “At last his suffering is over, Rose.”

 Our precious little Rudolf was gone.

Through the support of fellow Christians in the United States, our family is building a home for AIDS orphans in the highlands of Zimbabwe. Ten acres of virgin land nestled at the foot of the Nyanga Mountains were allocated by the government for this project. In 1998, groundbreaking for the Lucy Pruett Trinity Care Center was held, so named after my deceased mother, lover of children and missionary to Zimbabwe for 17 years.

Slowly but surely this center is becoming a haven for broken children, little ones who are starving for nourishment of body and soul. Currently we care for 16 children in residence, and dozens more within their own community environment, providing food, clothing, school fee’s and uniforms, medical assistance and spiritual guidance through our chapel.

Not all of our children have AIDS, but most of them have been affected by the virus in one way or the other, having lost parents or relatives to the monstrous disease. Rudolf was another statistic for the Ministry of Health, but to us, he was a very special little boy with his own unique personality. He came into our lives in 2000, bright and cheerful, yet we all watched in horror over the following four years as the virus that killed his parents silently albeit surely invaded his body.

He battled each infection bravely, taking his hospitalizations and medications obediently like a soldier. Yet in spite of all our valiant efforts, pounds melted off him as he turned into a skeleton of his former self. His thick curly black hair fell out and was replaced with unhealthy strands of reddish fluff. Sores dominated his throat and made eating tortuous. Finally, his organs began to fail, and his TB scarred lungs filled with fluid as the pneumonia common to AIDS made it self know.

With my husband in USA receiving medical treatment and our youngest daughter away at boarding school, I was alone with my thoughts that evening after Rose called, and the tears flowed freely. I struggled to sleep and asked God to comfort me throughout the night.

Early the next morning I embarked on the journey to our mission station, and as we bounced along the rocky road, I finally managed some conversation with Oscar, one of our faithful employees accompanying me that day.

“I hate African funerals, Oscar”.

“Why?” he laughed with his gutsy laugh that always cheers.

“Well, for one, the loud wailing. And then, there is the hardships placed on the bereaved family. Why do you people insist on the mourning family having to buy food for the community? But most of all, I hate the drinking of alcohol. How does getting drunk help the family?”

 I was in a mood to argue, but thankfully, Oscar does not have a contemptuous bone in his body.

 “Yes”, he mused more seriously. “That is our custom, although I agree the drinking of beer is not good. But it is a sign of respect to feed those who have walked a long way to console our families”.

 Sensing I had stepped on some toes, I left the conversation at that and before long we had arrived at our destination, the Manyonga Kraal (home). Rudolf had lived with his grandparents, Sekuru (Grandfather) and Mbuya (Grandmother) Manyonga, since the death of his parents when he was just a toddler. Recently he had stayed at our home so that we could give him the constant medical care he needed. A week before his death, he asked if he could go ‘home’ to his grandparents and I had remarked to Rose that I felt he knew it was near time to go to his final home.

Rose was there to meet us as we stepped out of the truck, and together we proceeded to pay our respects to the family. All of the men folk were seated on the ground, basking in the sun whilst leaning against the stick fence surrounding the homestead.

As I started to greet them, Rose whispered in my ear.

“You must shake their hands…every hand.” she said firmly, as if giving me yet another lesson in her culture.

 I gave her my ‘I already know that’ look and proceeded to receive firm hand embraces from each man. As we neared the end of the assembly, I remembered that in speaking to the men, I must not be taller than they, but indeed ‘beneath’ them, and so I dutifully took my place on my knees and cupped my hands in respect as I shared a few words of joy for the life of Rudolf, sorrow in his loss and finally, hope in his future.

Rose and I then walked to the kitchen hut, a round brick building with thatched roof. Herein is the center of all social interaction in maShona culture…where the women always gather to cook, to gossip, to laugh, to fight and to console the bereaved. Stepping into the dark, dank room, I lowered my head to avoid the sharp pieces of dried grass hanging over the doorway. I was so grateful that on this day there was not a fire burning inside, as the noxious smoke burns eyes and nostrils ordinarily. Inside, my eyes struggled to adjust, but finally I spotted the white sheet covering the lone figure lying on the cow dung floor. I followed the contour of the face, and then, ever so gently, down the body, as my brain tried to comprehend that here was Rudolf…so still and ever so solitary.

Taking her place of respect, Mbuya Manyonga was sitting upon a piece of foam, her back to the white-washed wall. Before her presence I bowed down and expressed my deepest sorrow. At the site of me, she began to cry mournfully. As is the culture, I was now supposed to wail passionately to show my sorrow for the loved ones left behind, but somehow I was unable to find it in me to do so. Having made my presence known, I encircled the room, again shaking hands outstretched to mine.

Within minutes, we were singing a melancholy tune, “Jerusarem, musha wangu” (Jerusalem, my home!). The women innately blended their voices to imitate an array of instruments, and within seconds I was mesmerized. Having lived in Africa for 27 years, I never tire of their singing. The music was hauntingly beautiful, and as my senses took in these sights and sounds, my being blended in with the other women and I too became part of the orchestra. I shamefully remembered my words to Oscar earlier than morning, and I began to comprehend a little more what thousands of years of tradition intermingled with Christianity had taught these people.

As abruptly as it had started, the singing stopped, and soon everyone was looking towards me. It was now time for the ‘murungu’ (white person) to say a few words about the deceased, for I too was considered his family. I stood up to speak but immediately realized that I was not in control of my emotions. Painstakingly the words tried to stumble from my mouth, and through a misty haze my gaze transfixed on Rudolf’s lifeless body. Suddenly, as if on cue, my partners in the room began to cry…ever so slowly building to a crescendo of sobbing. Our shared love for Rudolf spilled around the room and each and every person embraced the unspeakable moment.

As we sang yet another song, the women started to ululate loudly (a noise made with their tongues), and then dance and stomp their feet near the body, as if stomping on death itself. Smiles rose to the occasion as their cadence magnified and I now knew that in life as well in death, we were here together, no boundaries although very apart in culture. For the first time I understood the sense in these motions that we go through, for I too was comforted.

Throughout the morning more women arrived, each taking their place before the grandmother, with a period of loud wailing before joining in the festivities of the funeral. At one point I looked toward Rose and whispered,

“Are these women really crying?”

I noticed just a hint of a smile on Rose’s face, nevertheless she gave me a glance that told me I must be quiet and show more respect. We know each other, Rose and I, and her look had already answered me.

As the morning passed, I was offered food to eat, but declined. Already the men were drinking their ‘Chibuku’, a homemade African beer...perhaps to comfort themselves, but I knew before long they would be more than comforted. Their conversations would not be of Rudolf but of community affairs. They were there in body if not in soul to support the women as they went about the business of mourning.

As it seemed that the routine of mourning and dancing would continue forever, I heard angelic voices in the distance. Squinting I looked beyond the door into the light of day to see Rudolf’s young friends entering and singing a good-bye song to their little comrade. The moment touched me profoundly and I began to cry…again. Within moments I heard Rose’s soft sobs, and I understood. There is something so healing in young voices. It is as if they had innocently come to rescue each of us from our sorrow, for now the tears were of joy…of life….and of a new tomorrow.

And so that day claimed yet another victim of AIDS. As is the custom, he died and was buried before the sun rose on a new day. I cannot seem to keep up with the statistics these days, but I can tell you about a very real little boy, full of heart and soul…a life cut short far too soon. He had beautiful brown skin and a chirpy smile. He loved Coca-Cola, macaroni…and Rose. He would smile even as he lay dying, and he would giggle when I called him ‘Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer’.

He was just twelve years old, and life had not been fair to him. But we knew death would be. He departed from our presence on Thursday the 12th of May, 2004, and is now in the glorious presence of our Father, free from disease and pain. We knew you well, and we will miss you. It was an honor, Rudolf.