Wednesday morning was bright and sunny with a slight north-easterly wind. Rose tasted moisture on the air and hoped it signalled rain for Timau and the surrounding areas. Timau had always experienced a slightly different weather pattern from Nanyuki, and historically had its heaviest rainfall in July.
She remembered when Craig had been a farm manager near the town. As July approached, he would become increasingly agitated as he needed rain to replenish the soil with moisture, in readiness for August’s planting season, but at the same time, he didn’t want storms to flatten the ripening corn and peas on those areas of the farm which were awaiting harvest.
She entered Nanyuki’s crematorium with Chris and Heather. It was a sombre place with concrete floors and crumbling walls, but at least it was open to the sky. A mound of firewood had been built in the centre and Craig’s coffin rested on top of it.
Beside her, Heather gasped.
“Are you OK?” Chris asked his sister.
“Yes,” she stammered. “It’s just that I was expecting something more like the UK, where the body is cremated out of sight of the mourners. It’s so …”
“Explicit?”
“Yes, I guess so, but it’s also definitive, and typically Kenyan. Keep it plain, simple and natural.”
There were only the three of them staring at the funeral pyre. Rose had thought about asking close friends, but wasn’t sure where to draw the line. Instead, they had decided on a small family only cremation followed by a scattering of ashes at Borana.
Rose had booked St George’s Church for a memorial service on Saturday. Although she was Catholic, Craig had remained an Anglican. He had only attended church occasionally, but it had either been to St Georges’s in Nanyuki, or The Church of the Good Shepherd in Timau.
A member of the hospital staff stepped forward. He wore a grey suit, which was fraying at the ends of the sleeves and had a hole in the arm. It looked like a burn mark as the edges were copper-coloured. He asked, “Are you ready? Shall we begin?”
Chris walked away with the man who lit and handed him a burning torch. Slowly and steadfastly, Chris approached the pyre and, holding the torch to the dry wood, ignited it. Rose watched and under her breath she mumbled,
“O God, Creator and Redeemer,
Of all Your faithful people,
Grant to the souls of all our faithful departed
Your mercy, light and peace.
Lord, we pray that those we love,
Who have gone before us in faith,
May know your forgiveness for their sins.
And the blessings of everlasting light,
In the company of the Virgin Mary,
And all the angels and saints in ancient Heaven.
Amen”
Beside her Heather wept, and after several minutes, she turned away from the flames. Rose watched small particles rise into the air where they were caught by a gust of wind and carried away. She said solemnly in Swahili. “Hakuna chanson kisicho na mwisho,” and repeated in English, “There is no beginning that has no end. Everything has an end.”
Chris put his arm around her and observed, “Heather’s very upset. I suggest we go home and I’ll return in a couple of hours to collect the ashes. Then we can drive out to Borana.”
“I think that’s best. When I spoke to Marina this morning, she told me Thabiti had left in search of the perfect spot to scatter your father’s ashes. Somewhere the wind will carry them away across Laikipia, just as he wanted.”