This morning, Thursday, June 12, Adia's grandmother (his mother's mother) died quite unexpectedly. She was probably about 80, judging from the ages of her children and grandchildren, though most everyone you ask, including Adia, will say she was over 100. It makes me wonder about all the other folks who claim to be 100 or so. Adia must know that she wasnt' anywhere near that old. Yet when the director of the Dapaong hospital today asked Adia how old his grandmother was, he replied confidently, "She was 102!"

It seems she was bit by a scorpion several days ago, but no one noticed she was feeling unwell. Adia came to tell me, and asked if I would drive him into Dapaong (on my motorcycle) to telephone his brothers. En route, we stopped at the grandmother's house so Adia could check on things. He was in top form. As she had no living sons, of all the close relations present, he was the senior male, and thus responsible for logistical details and organization. These are both, of course, his forte. His datebook in hand, we made a quick reconnaissance, as if he were the general checking in at headquarters.

The old woman lived in a small mud hut with a grandson. Perched on a terrace below the cliffs east of us, the view is sweeping. Coulds lent depth to the sky, and the valley appeared to drop out below the house, then gently rise across a boulder-strewn slope, before abutting the cliff wall a kilometer or two across the valley. 

Several older women bustled about, quietly cleaning and arranging the house and yard. The grandmother lay on her sleeping mat in her small, round room, a granary in the center. Covered with a cloth, she lay curled, her face to the wall, as if sleeping. I expected to see her breath raise the cloth any moment.

In Dapaong we telephoned Adia's brother in Lome, then hurried back to the grandmother's house. By now there were several dozen people milling about the yard, presided over by many of the old men, installed in quiet clusters in the shade. I couldn't help wonder if they were dwelling more than usual on their own impending mortality. 

Adia's mother was there, and I went in to say hello. She was in the room with a cluster of wailing women. Her mother's body lay on a metal bed and mattress (borrowed from our storeroom). She came out with swollen eyes, and a very sad face. I gave her a hug, not knowing what else to do, and because it felt right, but I have no idea if it was appropriate.

Adia's brother had said he couldn't come up, but in the late afternoon his forest green sedan lumbered up to the gate. The faint sound of drums and women wailing echoed across the valley. 

Near sunset, Mike and I put on our "village best" and started off across the valley, only to see, halfway there, that the burial procession had already left, and was way ahead of us. So Mike hightailed it back for the motorcycle and we arrived at the market just as the procession did. 

The old woman had been wrapped in a layers of cloth, then lashed to a series of four long wooden poles. Two young men carried her, held high above their heads, bouncing and swaying. Someone twirled a black parasol next to her, and all around was a throng of celebrants, well-plied with the local millet beer, singing, dancing, whooping, and laughing. The mood was quite festive. The death of an old person is supposed to be cause for celebration, though of course there were many sad people. 

The cemetery, which we'd never seen before, is a jumble of intact and crumbling clay jars marking traditional graves, and a few western-style, cement-topped graves. The traditional grave is an underground, rounded hole. We're told that only a few people know how to dig them. The access hole is perhaps two feet in diameter. This hole is perhaps 18 inches deep. It then flares out underground, to create an egg-shaped hole about four and a half feet deep. 

As the body was carried to the graveyard, bouncing and swaying over the heads of the carriers, they would occasionally stop and lower it to the ground. The crowd would gather around tightly, chanting loudly. I was told the body was being "hidden," presumably from evil spirits. I imagine that a dead body en route to its burial could be vulnerable to wandering spirits and in need of protection by surrounding living bodies. 

We arrived at the grave site and the body was promenaded several times around the hole. The crowd, clumsy and aggressive with drink, pressed in closely, pushing and shoving. The body was lowered to the ground. Amid much raucous inconsideration on the part of the crowd, the layers of cloth were removed one by one and handed to several women. The body was left in a thin white wrapping that gaped open in the front. It was laced loosely, to prevent it falling off completely. 

An old man - the official burier and grave digger? - stood in the hole, his head and shoulders above ground. The old woman's body was lowered feet first into his arms and down the hole. I'd never seen a dead body before, but unlike a white person, who I imagine would be a ghostly hue of pale blue, the old woman remained a healthy chocolate brown. She was limp still. I was told her body had been washed four times. Her nostrils were plugged with cotton from the kapok tree. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth hung open, her jaw slack. Her lips were the only bluish skin. 

Once in the hole, she was curled up in a fetal position, her hands under her head as if sleeping. A woman's task is to prepare the evening meal after the family has worked all day, so they are buried facing west, toward the sunset. A man is buried facing the sunrise, as he must rise early each morning to work in his fields. 

The burier climbed out of the hole and one of the old woman's male relatives climbed in to check and make sure she was properly placed. (None of the women's children were allowed to be present, in this case because the deceased had had twins. I don't know if children are always barred from burials of their parents, but in the case of twins, there are many special rules to be observed.) I was glad her children were not there, because watching your mother's mostly unwrapped body being stuffed into the ground, covered with dirt, and stomped on, would be rather discomforting I imagine.

I was told that in the old days the body was covered with a layer of sticks. The hole was then covered with a round, flat rock. The dirt from the hole was piled on top, and an inverted clay jar was placed on the mound. If a young child in the family died, the grave could then be opened, the sticks moved, and the small child placed next to the elder, where it would be looked after and cared for. Our landlord says that several young children were buried this way in his grandmother's grave. But now, this time-consuming and laborious process is often foregone. 

Once the old woman was positioned, two young men with short-handled hoes stepped in and began scooping in the dirt. As the hole filled, the dirt was tamped down with sticks and rocks. Some quarreling began among the old men, and the crowd drifted away, most preferring not to watch. A granddaughter, my age, stood next to me wide-eyed, and gasped, "My god, they're juming up and down on my grandma!" I suggested it might be best not to watch, and we moved away.

Adia showed me his father's tomb, and enormous rectangular hunk of solid concret. Then we drifted back to the funeral house, where we drank some millet beer under a crescent moon and a skyful of stars before heading home and leaving the crowd to its all-night vigil. After three days the family elders will meet to decided how and when the funeral ceremonies will take place. 

[In a hot climate, it makes sense to bury the body quickly. In a farming economy, it makes sense to wait until the off season to hold the funeral, when people have more time.]