We alight at Kit Mikaye and walk back along the red dirt road until we hear music. About 200 yards from the highway a red tarp is strung between trees, and energetic modern music bounces out to meet us, as though there's a festival in the bush. Mama Eric once had a mud house here, but it crumbled. Now only bits of wall enclose bushes where rooms once enclosed people. A temporary “house” has been constructed from tree branches and grasses. In the doorway stands Mama Eric. Just outside the hut, Eric rests in his coffin, a woven mat protruding from the roof shades Eric's glass-encased face.

A scrawny dog sleeps in the shadow of the coffin. We stop to view Eric while Walter says a prayer. Though only 26 years old, Eric looks like an old man. He died Tuesday a week ago, 11 days before the funeral. His family didn't have money for the coffin or for transporting the body from Kisumu, so the funeral was postponed while money was raised. Eric's body was kept in the city morgue.

We step under the tarp and are ushered, encouraged, to the front, the very front, where cushioned couches wait. Taking the most comfortable seat doesn't seem right, but they insist on the mzungu (white person) sitting up front and I don't want to offend. I actually just want to melt, invisible, into the furniture, but that doesn't happen—could never happen. Several guys from Nyalenda are there and we shake hands. Walter walks away to photograph Eric and as I'm sitting, looking at Kit Mikaye across the field, I hear a toy whistle being blown. Incessantly. Wondering if this is part of the ceremony, I look to see a tall, thin young man, clearly drunk, stumbling through the dusty bush toward the tent. He grins and stops in front of me. But he doesn't really stop because part of him, mostly his head and shoulders, keeps moving in circles. He shakes my hand and speaks in Luo and one of the ladies sitting behind me throws a stick at him to scare him away. His hand, covered in dirt, deposits soil into my hand. As he jerks away, blowing his whistle, I notice dirt and dried leaves clinging to his back.

The reverend sits up front, facing us. He's skinny, something most old men in Kenya have in common. He wears a light blue suit of thin material.

The tradition at Luo funerals is for friends and family to speak about the deceased before the clergymen take over. Walter is the first person to speak. He talks for 15 minutes, followed by a young woman, followed by an old woman, followed by an even older woman, Eric's tiny, creased grandmother. It's all in Luo, though Walter occasionally translates the more important messages, like when to stand and when to sit.

The choir arrives and is made up of ladies of all ages, each one wearing a white, lacy scarf tied around her head. They sing and clap with fervor, one solitary voice ringing out the verse while all other voices mesh as backup. It's quite lovely and uplifting. The dog keeps coming into the inner circle between our front seats and the reverend's table. At first, Walter throws dirt clumps and sticks at the dog, to move him out of the “sanctuary,” much as the ladies tried to scare away the drunken guy. But now the elders of the church have arrived and the reverend says the choir will go to the road and escort the elders back. The choir sings and claps, walking in unison to the beat, and as they surround the elders, headed our way, the reverend, just behind me, pulls back his right foot and lets it fly into the dog's backend. There's a shrieking howl and I jump, for the dog is at my feet, and he runs from the tent. I feel his shock, feel it for awhile because the reverend didn't care about the dog being in the center until the elders were approaching.

Seven elders stop in front of Eric, serenaded by the choir, and the main guy raises both hands, a bible in his left, and he yells out a prayer. The preachers take their places in front of us, on cushioned couches, as young men from Nyalenda lift Eric's coffin and bring him under the tarp, lowering him onto a coffee table. The ground is uneven, so someone places a stick under the table leg and now Eric is with us, only inches away. And his mother weeps.

Each preacher gets up to deliver a sermon and every one of them speaks in Luo, never a word in English. The choir sings as the men take turns preaching. One fellow, a small guy in short sleeves with a belt buckle that reads “Ford,” gets up clutching his bible wrapped in bright yellow oil cloth. Each preacher has a bible that looks as though it's been read at least four million times, any color once existing having been worn away by sweating hands. The short preacher puts on a performance, practically screaming his message, and spraying me with every word. First, I turn my head because his voice is so loud and its intensity offends me (and I can't, just can't watch any more spit sailing my way). Just when it seems the protruding veins in his neck and forehead will surely burst, baptizing us all in his blood, his face goes completely slack, with a slight smile, and he says “Hallelujah,” which the crowd answers with an “amen.” Every time he's about to explode, as I feel his spittle hitting my face and knees and shirt, he steps forward with his slight smile and softly says “Hallelujah.”

“Amen.”

I want to walk away to protest his very obvious performance. But I sit quietly while my mind screams “sit down!” He goes on and on and jumps and jerks his arms and spews on more people in the audience, until the choir members are rocking and holding their faces in their hands and speaking in tongues. Well, they're not actually speaking in tongues, just Luo, but they're each saying their own personal prayer in response to the frenzied, spittle-filled words being hurled at us.

Finally, the short preacher stops and asks the choir to sing and he moves back to his spot next the other preachers and I hope and pray he doesn't talk to me after the service.

Mama Eric stands to speak and a heavy-set woman stands next to her, for physical support. Mama Eric's grief slaps me like the reverend's foot on the dog's rear. Tears form and roll from my eyes. A mother loses her oldest son and I cannot imagine the pain she's in. Or can I? She says the word “mzungu” repeatedly and later Walter tells me what she said. It's seems since Kenya was a British colony, Kenyans think wazungu, or white people, know how to do everything. And when a white person says he or she will do something, they do it. Mama Eric was comparing Eric to an mzungu, because any time he told her he was going to do something for her, he did. Then her voice catches and she sobs, though she's working hard not to, and when she hesitates, to reclaim her calm, the woman at her elbow begins to sing and the choir joins and soon everyone is singing, giving Mama Eric time to compose. She does. But she doesn't speak much more before sitting down again.

Robert, a young man from Nyalenda whom I met in the slum, stands in front of the group in his very white, long-sleeve shirt and dark slacks and begins to speak in English.

“There is someone with us today who cannot understand anything that is being said.”

The ladies in the crowd shout at him, telling him to speak in Luo. He responds in Luo and begins to speak to me directly, in front of the group, in English, thanking me for being there, for everything I've done. Too late for melting into the furniture. I'm ashamed to be thanked simply for showing up.

“Will you greet the crowd?” he asks. I stand and pivot and cannot believe the number of faces turned toward me. Over the last couple of hours, more than 200  people slowly accumulated under the tarp. Walter says he will translate.

“I'm honored to be with you today,” I begin, “but I'm saddened to not have known Eric. Walter and several young men in the congregation have shared with me what a wonderful man Eric was.” I pause to allow Walter to translate.

“I look forward to getting to know Eric better by getting to know you, his friends. Thank you for allowing me to join you on such a sacred and solemn occasion.”

The faces looking toward me are upturned, many leaning forward, intent on what I'm saying. I see compassion and recognize genuineness. One young woman's face tells me she finds me sincere. I love her face.                          

It's time to give contributions, so space is cleared in front of the coffin. The choir sings and everyone lines up to pass by Eric and drop money in a plastic bowl. It takes awhile for everyone to pass, but once we're out of our seats and standing in the sun, the reverend calls several young men to lift the coffin, to carry it the 12 feet to the grave. Young men scramble into position, gripping the home-made handles, and lift Eric. The choir surrounds the men while the preachers take their place at the grave head. Placing the coffin on the ground, young men leap into the hole to receive the box and lower it. The hand-off isn't smooth. It can never be smooth when the grave is barely wide enough to hold the box. Young men brace their feet against grave walls, hovering, to bend and lower the coffin, tilting this way and that, into people-free space.

Lowering a casket is never smooth.

Mama Eric sits in a chair next to the grave, her ever-present friend at her side and Walter’s bouquet of flowers on her lap. The choir sings and men leap up onto the dirt mound, swinging shovels and dirt toward the coffin, flinging red dust onto Mama Eric. Women begin to wail. Several women. Many women, walking and wailing with tears flowing, and they lean forward and speak of their agony between wails, marching to the choir's tune. The small preacher in the blue short sleeve shirt stands before me with a big smile on his face, pumping my hand. Tells me his name, which I don’t catch. Behind him, on the other side of the grave, come loud and quick bursts on the toy whistle. As I look into the short preacher's face, I hear the women wailing and the whistle blasting and cannot concentrate on what he is saying.

 “We heard there was going to be a white man here today,” he says, and I swear he's salivating, as though he's picturing me as a cooked and stuffed turkey.

“You have come here to preach God's word?” he asks. The whistle blasts three hard times.

“No,” I say, waiting for him to release my hand, “I'm here as a volunteer at a college.”

“That's the African way,” Walter says with an apology in his voice. I must be shaking my head from side to side.

I take the photo and as the group disburses, Walter calls to the drunken guy and motions for him to stand by the grave to have his photo taken. He stands at the grave head, alone, with a smile as I snap the picture.

It's time to eat, so we pack up the camera and walk about one-half mile to the next group of houses, where Robert grew up. Under a huge, spreading Mango tree, eight couches are placed in a giant square. A coffee table sits in the center. People coming from the grave site carry couches, chairs and cushions over their heads, placing them in the shade of houses and trees. Under the giant tree sits a group of about 30 men, most from Nyalenda and most are drinking. Walter introduces me to each one, and then we go into a small house across the way. It's just me, Walter and two boxes for chairs and a coffee table.

Robert brings in a tray bearing dishes of fried calf liver, dried fish, shredded, steamed cabbage, ugali, sumaki wiki, stewed chicken, rice and goat. It is a beautiful spread of food just for me and Walter and we dig in, eating with our hands from the tray and from the bowls. I'm very hungry and very grateful for this delicious food. They bring us water to drink and water to wash our hands with afterwards. The 30-odd guys are heading back to Kisumu, a few of them on bicycles, which will take about three hours. We say goodbye and walk to the road to hail a matatu. Trucks carrying soldiers pass by, headed back to Nairobi after providing security for the president's visit. Overhead, two helicopters buzz, carrying ministers of this and that and possibly the President of Kenya. Matatus going to Kisumu are packed with people who came out to see the president.

We finally squeeze into a matatu and soon stop to let off a passenger. I recognize the place; it's the town where George, a co-worker, grew up; he pointed it out on one of our weekly field trips. I look for George down the center street. The chances are nil that I'll see George, for he lives in Kisumu and rarely goes home. But I believe I will see him. The first man I see on the street is facing away, but his build is like George's, his gait leisurely and sure. The woman to my right wants out, so I exit the matatu and look back into town, to see if it's George walking with a friend.

It is George! He looks up to the road without me having to shout at him and sees me immediately. I wave and he waves, smiling.