Day's Diary

June 12, 2007 ~ The First Lady's Funeral

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The First Lady of Malawi, Madame Ethel Mutharika, died on May 28. Her body lay in state in the capital of Lilongwe for four days, then was moved to Mzuzu, in the northern region for four days and finally to Blantyre for four days before her funeral and burial on June 9, from St. Michael’s and All Angels Church, CCAP. The President is Roman Catholic, but the First Lady was CCAP. This placed the CCAP at center of history, since this was the first State Funeral for any one in a First Family in Malawi. She was dearly loved throughout the country and the lines to view the body were miles long in each city. The expectation for the funeral was that there would be a record crowd. Expectations were met. Every Malawian hoped for the opportunity to attend the funeral or the burial, but space was limited. However, all the pastors of the CCAP were invited to be present at the funeral, to show respect. I got a specific invitation from Andrew Maere, the Deputy General Secretary. It wasn’t really an invitation — it was more of an implied command. He said, “You will be at the Funeral, won’t you?” That was not a question! Silas was asked to participate in the service, so we agreed that we would go together early on Saturday morning.

On Friday, we had to be in Blantyre for a farewell dinner for Debbie Kippley’s group from Nebraska. After we got the PTS group off to Chinguni Hills to see the animals, we headed to Blantyre for the dinner. As usual we had to make a few stops on the way, one of which put us at a place where we turned onto the road between the airport and Blantyre. We were immediately stopped in traffic. It was bumper to bumper the entire way in to Blantyre. There were foreign dignitaries arriving, and in true Malawian fashion, all traffic is stopped to allow their motorcades to pass. Add to that large flatbed trucks loaded with people coming in to the city to just witness the events of the day, and traffic was a nightmare. Silas began to question our decision to come in from Zomba in the morning, but it was too late to do anything else, since we didn’t have our clergy robes with us and there was no where in town to stay, even if we had wanted to. As we approached the Synod compound, traffic was at a standstill. The road was blocked for us to turn into the Synod. Silas drove around several cars and up to a traffic officer to inform him that we had to get onto the Synod property. The white head and commanding voice did the trick; the officer saluted and cleared the way for us. Silas observed that if traffic was this bad the night before, the day of the funeral would be a disaster. He determined that we needed to leave Zomba at 4:00 a.m. to avoid the traffic. That became the plan. We left as soon after the dinner and speeches as we could but it was still 10:45 p.m. before we arrived in Zomba. Silas was emphatic that we leaving at 4:00 a.m. so we were to sleep fast.

Margaret wasn’t ready on time and Silas phoned to say that he was going to pick up one of our passengers. (This is Malawi — no one travels alone.) We were leaving as soon as he got back, whether or not Margaret was ready. She was and so we set off at 4:30 a.m. There was no one on the road. We arrived at Grace Bandawe before 6:0 a.m. for breakfast and then onto the Synod to park and wait for the rest of the procession to arrive. Silas carefully chose a parking spot that would not allow us to be blocked in and that would allow us to get out easily. As we parked, bus loads of Mvano and youth choirs began to arrive. People waved and greeted one another as if this were a social event. There was an almost festive atmosphere about this. As we got out of the truck, Silas realized that in the confusion of leaving, he had forgotten his robe and his written prayer in Zomba. We made a quick call to a pastor we knew had two robes, he agreed to bring his second one for Silas and then we encouraged Silas that he could pray from his heart.

The service was to be held in the multipurpose hall and the church was the meeting area for the clergy. As groups arrived, they were greeted with handshakes and hugs. The pastors’ group was ecumenical, including Baptists, Episcopalians, Pentecostals, Apostolics, Seventh Day Adventists, and Catholics as well as Presbyterians. Robe styles and stole colors provided a rainbow effect. About 8:15 a.m., Rev. Maere gave instructions for the service and concluded with the directions that we were to process three abreast to the multipurpose hall and take seats as available, beginning with the 56 on the chancel and filling in the rest on the side. As we moved out, there was a press to be among the first 56 to get the front seats. It was not the clergy at their best. As we pressed to the hall, there were crowds gathered all along the way, standing three to four deep in solemn silence. They were there to listen on the loudspeakers to the funeral service. Police officers formed an honor guard along the path.

Rev. Njala, who had traveled with us from Zomba, pushed me up onto the chancel. We were in the back row, but he was satisfied that we were on the chancel. (I think we could have seen better from the side, but being seen was more the thing than seeing.) The hall was filled with Mvano and choirs, except for the reserved seats, which were marked for State officials, foreign dignitaries and family members, all of whom were accompanying the body from the State House. Rev. Songola, who was leading the music, led those gathered in the hymns that were to be sung during the service and then various choirs took turns singing as we awaited the arrival of the body. It became a time of worship.

About 9:45 a.m., we heard sirens and I watched out the back door as the motorcade arrived with the body and the important dignitaries. They came into the hall in formal procession, the body first and then the heads of state, least important to most, with the President and his family arriving last. The congregation stood for the entire procession. The service, which had times allotted for each part, was scheduled to last an hour and half. It went for two hours, but that was not bad, considering that there were two sermons, one in English and one in Chichewa, and an intercessory prayer that involved five pastors from five different denominations. Rev. Dr. Felix Chingota preached the English sermon and Rev. Reynold Mangisa preached the Chichewa sermon. Silas had the first of the intercessory prayers. Mangisa’s preaching was particularly powerful, as he preached from Luke 13:6-9 about the fig tree that was granted an additional year to produce before being cut down. He was specific in his application. (This has been the talk of the CCAP since.)

The service ended with the singing of the Malawi National Anthem. Then came instructions for departure. The clergy were to leave first, three abreast, and process to the waiting buses. Again, we were not at our best. Those who sat at the side wanted to be on the buses, since they did not get the seats of honor during the service, so there was a push from the side to break into the procession from the chancel. It looked more like a mob than a procession. Once outside, those nearer the front almost ran to the buses. There were only two buses and they only seated 100 people and there were far more clergy who wanted transport. Rev. Njala and I were no where near getting on a bus. As we stood beside the first bus discussing what to do, Rev. Maere, who was sitting in the front seat of the bus, called out the window to me to get on the bus. I explained that I couldn’t since there was no room. He directed me to get my truck and get in the procession between the two buses. I explained that Silas had the keys. He promptly yelled to the back of the bus to Silas to pass the keys forward. Silas called back that I could not drive in the procession, and with that he worked his way out of the bus. He grabbed my hand and pulled me along, instructing me to get Njala and move quickly to the truck. We both obediently followed in his wake. As we moved down the driveway to the truck, we could see literally thousands of people standing five and six deep along the road and packing the grassy area, just hoping to get a glimpse of everyone in the procession. The crowd was silent and reverent. As we approached the truck, Silas barked orders to two police officers to clear the way and stop the second bus to allow the truck to enter the procession. They saluted and followed his orders. We quickly hopped in the truck. Two stranded pastors had heard the exchanges and just followed us to the truck and jumped in too. This is Malawi. We pulled into the procession behind the first bus and were set for the trip down to Thyolo, where the burial would take place.

The road had been cleared of all traffic. The Procession became almost a parade, but a very solemn one. The streets were lined three and four deep with mourners, waiting to view the President and the casket. There was no break in the mourners until we got to the more remote areas and even then there were pockets of people gathered at varying intervals, all silent. It was very touching to see. Now those of you who know Silas will not be surprised at his driving, even in a funeral procession. As we started up a hill, out of Blantyre toward Limbe, Silas just could not stay behind the bus, so he moved out to pass. When I registered shock, he just laughed and said there was room in front, and anyway, there was a carload of Catholic bishops in the lead and at least a truck of Presbyterian clergy should come in second. He passed the bus. Only Silas would pass in a funeral procession.

The ride to Thyolo took about an hour. The last part of the trip was on dirt road that had been watered down to reduce the dust, but it in no way eliminated the dust. Again, even in this rather remotely populated area, there were people lined up to view the procession. As we got closer to Ndata Farm, the site of the burial, the crowds thickened. Approaching the farm, we realized the fields had become giant parking lots for the throngs that had gathered on the hillsides surrounding the burial site. The parking reminded me of going to the County Fair with my family when I was a child. Silas drove up to the closest area of parking, closely following the bishops, and told us to get out. He would park the truck. We dutifully obeyed. We followed the bishops, at police instruction, between an area of straw where Mvano were sitting and a roofed area of chairs marked for Government officials. We were directed to another roofed area with chairs, perpendicular to this one, designated for abusa. These roofed areas were specially constructed for occasion. They were corrugated metal upheld by iron poles, portable and functional. These roofs were placed in a large square surrounding the grave, but at a distance from the grave. The space closer to the grave was for the mvano to sit on the straw and for the military band to march in front of the seated dignitaries. The clergy’s seating area was opposite the Presidential seating area, on the other side of the gravesite. There was seating on a raised platform for those who were leading the worship. That is where Silas was seated. Njala and I sat four rows back on ground level seating. What this meant was that we were too far away to see much of anything clearly, but we were much closer than the thousands who had gathered in the field and on the hillside behind us. There was a public address system, but it was far too small for such a large area. Those who were watching on television could see and hear all that was going on. Those of us present had the honor of being present, but were not always able to hear and seldom able to see what was happening.

In Malawi, the graveside service is nothing like that in America. Burial involves the entire process: lowering the casket, covering it with the dirt, and, in this case, sealing it with concrete. Then everyone honors the deceased by placing flowers and wreaths on the grave. This is a very formal presentation and there is order of protocol for this. While in the States this is a brief ceremony, here it is the longest part of the service. For the First Lady, this took more than three hours.

It began with the presentation of the casket. It was carried by a military honor guard, escorted by the military band and accompanied by a 21 cannon salute. The cannon fire was at intervals of several minutes throughout the procession, and was an actual cannon, positioned on the hill behind the area where the clergy were seated. It was so close and so loud that it shook our chairs. This was followed by scripture and a hymn and the actual committal service (burial), again with choirs and the band. It was at this point that things got a bit confusing. This was to be the responsibility of the church, but the military more or less took over. Several of the choirs were stopped or turned away as the band marched and played. After the casket was lowered and dirt put in, a cement mixer moved onto the grounds and the workers moved wheel barrels of cement to seal the grave. The band did help to cover the sound of the mixer. The most moving music for me was a solo of “The Holy City” sung by a baritone, accompanied on piano (brought in for the occasion) and violin. They were positioned in the midst of the clergy, so I could hear perfectly. Before the words of committal were spoken and the prayer offered, all the dignitaries were invited to offer their condolences, so there were a series of speeches that lasted over an hour. Someone, on behalf of the family, then read the list of condolence gifts given, including all names and amounts of the gifts. A spokesperson for the family offered thanks. Then the flowers were presented. Again, there is an order and formality to this as each one brings a wreath or bouquet and places it on the grave. This began with the visiting dignitaries and worked down to the mvano. This is a long process.

About this time, people started to quietly leave. I turned around to see that most of the crowd that had been behind us was gone. Rev. Njala caught Silas’ eye and they agreed it was time for us to leave. (Other clergy were doing the same, including the bishops.) We followed Silas out to the parking area, and once again, he had found the perfect spot where we were not blocked in and could easily drive out. As we approached the truck, I was again aware that we had a following of pastors, ones hopeful of a ride back to Blantyre (most of whom had been eager to get on the bus and were now rethinking that decision). Silas graciously opened the back of the truck for five of them to climb in, suits, robes and all. This is Malawi. Without ceremony this time, we joined a procession of cars and trucks heading back “early.” By this time it was almost 5:00 p.m. and the service had been going on for over three hours. There would be another half an hour of speeches and farewells before it was officially over. While it was a rather unceremonious ending to a very ceremonial day, we had been part of Malawian history.