#8 - Firing Squads, Funerals and a Retreat for Priests

Octobero - 1993

Dear Gentle Reader,

Peace of Christ!

And Merry Christmas! (In case I don't get another letter out or over before then.) Note the new letterhead one of the things I have been doing to help keep me busy is playing with the design of various things stationery, I've taken over the Regional Newsletter and gave that a new look, and several of our works have come to me for new designs for church bulletins, that sort of thing. Those who know me well and my absolute and complete lack of artistic talent in graphic and visual arts get some sense of just how desperate we can get over here.

In an attempt to keep these periodic mailings interesting and diverse, I thought that this time, instead of a chronology although there will be invariably some of that I'd include a series of episodes, vignettes, mini moments of striking and less striking events over the past several months. They will be interspersed with other stuff but it will keep y'all posted on how the wandering wastrel is faring in far away places.

But before I do I find myself in need of a volunteer. One of my stalwart copiers/distributors can no longer perform his function. For the best of reasons, I think. Dave Rogers, whom some of you may have met at the ordination, or other Sheehan functions charming chap, retired bank president from Salisbury, great admirer of my fathert's and friend of my mother's well, Dave has gone off to Boston, to a special seminary for men with what they euphemistically call "Late Vocations". Yup, he's off to see about becoming a priest. Talk about a second career!

But whilst he is deep in his studies, he is not really in a position to handle duplicating and mailing. So if there is someone reading this who would like to volunteer to receive your copy of the periodic perambulations of a peripatetic priest somewhat in advance of the masses, make around 7 copies and mail them off to 7 people you probably don't know DON'T WRITE TO ME!! Rather, give a call to Tom Gifford, (212) 475 3221 and let him know. He is a novelist, and works at home, so his answering machine is often on. LEAVE A MESSAGE! Even if you have a pathological hatred of answering machines, this one time, LEAVE A MESSAGE! And he will have the names and addresses and you can start with this very newsletter. In advance whoever you are many thanks.

If there are a flood of volunteers, Tom will note that, and maybe we will expand the old list.

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The end of the summer has meant lots of people travelling, and since they all pass through here, that has been fun. Packy McFarland, of Kaduna fame, is now in Ghana. He returned here, spent a couple of weeks, and then went by ship, so that he could take all his trunks and boxes more easily. Several other summer visitors returned home, scholastics are all off to their study assignments, whether in the U.S. or Rome or Zaire or Zimbabwe. And some of us get to stay here.

Body of Christ except for the ants. Yup, helping out at the first Mass at CKC I was asked to use the hosts in the tabernacle first sort of a first in, first out rotation, to help keep them fresh. When I opened the ciborium (the large covered cup in which con secrated hosts are kept) I was mildly startled to see a small army of ants having their breakfast. When they saw me they immediately disappeared into the depths of the vessel, so each time I gave someone a host, I tried to surreptitiously check to be sure there were no crawling bodies on it. As I got to the bottom of the cup, it was easier to subtly (and I hope without being noticed) smash their little bodies before I picked up the next host. Certainly added some interest to distributing communion.

Ants are truly everywhere. It is so commonplace to have them crawling on my body as I work or read, I don't even think about it any more. I mean, I'm not used to it, and I do kill the little pests each and every chance I get. But they're in the pages of books, they're in the computer so far to no ill effect, but I'm waiting for the day... they're everywhere. I have sealed up most of my mechanical and electronic items in zip lock bags (for those of you who don't remember these things, that's a trademark zip lock), which protects both from dust and from crawly things, but you do have to take them out of the bag to use them.

Someone said yesterday we have good news and bad news. The good news is that Lagos is returning to normal. The bad news is Lagos is returning to normal.

You know when crazy people complain about crawly things going all over their body? Raise your hand, John, you have joined the club. Many times when I feel little footsteps, there are in fact little feet behind them. But over the past several weeks there have been increasing instances where I well, it's more than an itch, it's like something biting me. Sometimes it feels almost likes it's underneath the skin. And when I go to scratch or swat, there's nothing there. And my back is getting worse a littl stiffness I am used to, but when I sneeze, major sharp pain. I have put myself on the list whenever we next go to see Akinbade. Not nice.

Buying Cigars

One day Fr. Jack Ryan and I had arranged to go downtown, so that he could show me where he gets his cigars. I went over about 9:30 and picked up Jack and we went downtown to find his cigar store.

Store in the loosest sense of the word. There is this old man who rolls his own cigars, and for 90 Naira (a little over $3 US) you get a box of 25. And a cold drink, and a cigar to sample while you're there. News flash they're great cigars!

We drove down to Lagos Island, into the heart of the old city. Usually, the street on which the place is located (I am told) is open enough so that parking is not a problem. However, about four blocks away from this place there is a petrol station, and the line of cars stretched back for many blocks. I pulled off into a side street, and found a place to park. Spent several minutes greeting and being greeted by small children ("Shake me, master", which means "Shake my hand") and then Ryan said, "Follow me".

We went down the street, and turned into a doorway, which led into a courtyard. The walkway has an open gutter (read sewer) running along it. People are sitting in doorways as we pass, and we are greeted. At the end of the courtyard is a dark passageway in which a man is living. We walk through his living room for it is also the passageway back into another series of "houses".

Dark, but not pitch black, and the sewer is now running in the middle of the walkway. Occasionally there are boards placed across it to make walking easier, but I am wearing sandals, and I am paying close attention.

Suddenly Jack turns left, into what looks like a solid wall. It is absolutely pitch black, so dark I could not see that it was an entryway into a passage. As I follow, Jack warns me to be careful there's that sewer again. I am torn between wanting to touch the wall for security and not wanting to touch the wall. Or anything else. A light ahead and we come out of the tunnel into another courtyard. A large woman, wearing a wrap around skirt and a large bra is sitting eating something, and she greets us. And we turn left, and are greeted by a little old man the cigar maker himself!

I was fascinated with how Jack ever found the place, and when I asked him later, he told me that Joe Landy had taken him there. Some day I must find out from Landy how he first came across the place. Anyway, they brought out chairs, and I bought three boxes, one for me and two for Steve Astill. They offered us a mineral, which we refused. A whole herd of children appeared, and I proceeded to play finger games, make silly faces, and generally entertain. We were each given a "sample" cigar, so we lit up and visited for a little, and then one of the older children led us out. I was still sort of playing with the kids, and I turned to see Jack disappearing back into that tunnel. I had a brief moment of panic, thinking that if I lost him, I would never find my way out of that rabbit warren, and someday someone would find one lonely sandal at the bottom of the sewer. Bringing all my tracking skills to the surface, I caught up to and stayed with my guide (on later reflection, I realized that I shouldn't have worried. I had the keys to the car.) and daylight, blessed daylight.

But the street we were on was too narrow to permit us to go back to the street we knew, so we went on. And proceeded to get thoroughly lost. Twice I found myself going down a one way street the wrong way, twice I got well down a street only to be told "No road" ie, the road is closed ahead. So once we backed, once I turned. You should have heard the two of us, discussing with great seriousness whether we should turn right or left, neither one of us having the faintest idea where we were. One comforting thought, though Lagos is an island, and sooner or later, you are bound to end up somewhere. (See what all those years of philosophy study do for you?)

A Birthday Party

I spent a week at St Joseph's Parish in Benin City before I went on to Okigwe for the retreat, during which time we celebrated Ed Debany's birthday. Parties in Nigeria are strange animals. This evening's was fairly typical. It was put on by the Miraculous Infant Jesus Society. Everyone gathered and visited and talked. At some point in the evening, the designated Master of Ceremonies got everyone's attention, more or less, and introduced Fr. Ed and moved him into the center seat at the high table. (Just what it sounds like, a long table in the front of the room. Very British.) Then I was introduced and brought up, and after several abortive attempts to get Peter Schineller up (who was visiting in Benin), Fr. Stehr from the Novitiate joined us. Then several other invited guests ie, local dignitaries, joined us, and one was designated as the Chairman. He had nothing to do in the evening's agenda, except at one point offer a speech, but then again, so did most of the people at the high table. Opening prayer, which was sung by yours truly I'm getting pretty quick on the uptake with the "spontaneous" song requests speech of welcome, several other speeches and during all of this, drinks (soft drinks) were being served, and then large plates of food were brought out rice and beef and chicken and cole slaw not just for the high table, but for everyone present, perhaps 120 people. Feeding the masses is a great tradition. There was also a large cake in the center of the table. How large? Well, everyone present had a piece, and we took fully half of it back to the residence. Not just big in circumference (and from this the educated reader deduces that the cake in question was round, not some sort of sheet cake), but the equivalent of four layers thick. With raisins and dark flour and a marzipan flavored icing that was wonderful. And covered with candy forget me nots. Baked by a woman from Jamaica. Go figure.

There was a toast, at which everyone clinked glasses with virtually everyone else, and more speeches, and a note of thanks, and a closing prayer. The event last about an hour and a half, during which most of the people sat and chatted with one another, ate and drank, and usually ignored whoever was speaking. Jack Ryan maintains that at some point in the development of language, someone got party and meeting backwards, because all their parties are run like meetings, and their meetings tend to resemble U.S. cocktail parties.

Sunday, 26 September
I think I'm getting acclimatized I slept right through the morning Angelus did I mention that at 6AM, Noon and 6Pm, some maniac with more energy than discretion gets a hold of the bell rope hanging at the bottom of the bell tower and gives it several minutes of energetic pulling? Unfortunately, the bell rope is attached to a bell and even more unfortunately, it is not one of your beautifully made, sonorous, sweet sounding Swiss bells. This rings rather like a trash can suspended by baling wire. So three times a day there is a piercing, loud, and really annoying clanking. It is designed to bring one to prayer. It does. One prays three times a day for the swift and certain demise of the bell ringer. Quasimodo praying to go deaf.

Concelebrated the 8AM Mass with Jerry Aman, and preached. He wasn't happy about his thoughts for the day, and I mentioned that mine was really rather good (I had preached the night before, and I had started by saying that it was the anniversary of my father's death, a sure way to get the crowd on your side) and I just "happened" to have it in my pocket. So away I went got applause at the end. (I always wonder if that is for content or style. I like the Olympic system better one vote for style, and a separate rating for content. Preaching as an Olympic event?)

And then packed and off with Sam, the driver from Lagos, to Okigwe a reputed four hour trip that we managed to do in seven. It was not bad travelling until Onitsha (I assume by now you have whipped out the handy Nigerian Atlas that my earlier letters have undoubtedly prompted to you to purchase) where a go slow was quickly turning into a full stop. There were two lanes, maybe three. In true Nigerian fashion, drivers attempting to cut in the head of the queue of stopped vehicles had formed three lanes, and before I could comment on the perceived unwisdom of such a move, my driver Sam, bless him whipped into the fourth lane, and away we sailed. It occured to me, as we plowed through the thick mud and deep canyons that Anambra State laughingly calls a road, that we were by this action eliminating any space in which oncoming traffic could move, should there come a moment when there would actually be oncoming traffic. In only a very few moments, there was several cars nearer the front had despaired of ever moving forward, and had managed to turn around and were coming at us. And we had to admit that they had justice on their side they were entitled to at least one of the four lanes. So we backed up, and actually managed to finesse (and I use the word extremely loosely) our way into the third which had now become the outside lane. Where we sat for a while longer. Finally, several shouting people and a general lack of movement in the area immediate ahead of us convinced us that should an opening appear, we might be well advised to take the side road that sat emptily and invitingly off, disappearing down a horizon approximately 90 degrees north of where we actually wanted to go.

The advantage, of course, is that a road going north frequently intersects with a road going east our direction of choice and so we decided that movement held more potential than sitting. I will never know if we were right. Certainly the adventure quotient did not seem to drop. We came across a petrol station, hidden away on a bad, bumpy, deserted lane that would have seemed more appropriate for deep in the Appalachians and they were pumping! So we pulled in. Aha they were charging 3 Naira a litre, where the official and legal price is 70 kobol. Since Sam had to drive and deal with keeping the car live, I deferred to his judgement, and he decided to buy the petrol. (I note for the record it ain't his money.) But he, very wisely, insisted on a receipt. Which the young lady pumping the petrol was not about to give. At which point yours truly intervened, and in as stentorian a tone as I could muster and you know that I can muster pretty good when the spirit is on me I informed the young lady that if a receipt were not forthcoming, we would be immediately forthgoing, and all of our Naira would be in our pocket remaining. And if she wanted to call the police, we would have a conversation about the prices they were charging, and I would be only too delighted to press charges, testify against them, and see their station sealed and the whole lot of them thrown in jail. Or words to that effect. Sonofagun, we got the receipt. And back on the road.

To call what we were on a road well, I suppose it was something like the Burma Road. Craters. Swamps. Mud creations worthy of minor deity. Even by Nigerian Standards (Hey! I made an oxymoron! Nigerian Standards!) the road was terrible. But in time we found both a road going sort of east, and a human being who assured us that this road (Hah!) would get us to another road that would get us to where we wanted to go.

Here we met the first of three people giving directions each one assured us that the way we were going would take us directly to Okigwe. But the road was bad, so if we wanted to go this way and take a turn here and spin three times to the east (ever tried to follow directions given in a rapid pidgin?) we would get there with better roads. In each case, Sam Bless him took the more complicated route except the last time. I almost made him stop the car so that I could get out my camera. I have vowed to try to stay to verbal descriptions, rather than simply snapping away but there is nothing I could say that would make you believe the road called "Okigwe Road". Now I cannot argue with the descriptive content since it, in fact, got us to Okigwe. We went through mud, we went through craters the petrol jerry cans broke loose twice because of the jarring and bumping, and I finally put one in the front seat with the guy who came with us (don't ask) and I hugged the other one in the back. We had left Benin at 11AM, and arrived in Okigwe at 5:45, tired and sweaty and hungry and in my case, smelling slightly of petrol. And I immediately had to start dealing with the retreat.

I had planned on three conferences a day, Monday through Saturday. Their schedule called for two a day, Monday through Friday. They had all sorts of devotions scattered throughout the day I had left space for one, once a day. And so on. We worked out a compromise some of their scheduling was based on things like the extraordinary heat and lack of power, so from 1 until 4:30, nothing moves. Makes sense to me. Mass early, meals late I got my three conferences back in, which meant I only really had to cut or combine three. I modified my desire for a silent retreat I had hoped to have all the meals silent, but had to give up the evening meal. Not bad, all things considered.

Invitation to an Execution
There is a feeling among many people that the arrival of a telegram only means bad news. For the Parish Priest at St. Joseph's Parish in Benin City, Nigeria, it usually means that there is going to be an execution, and the presence of the priest is requested. Emmanuel is the catechist who has been faithfully going to the prison six days a week for over 17 years, and he stresses how important it is for the priest to come. "If the Father is there, they won't torture the prisoners before they shoot them." The telegram announces that the execution will take place on such and such a day, at a certain field and the exercise listed is "Target Practice".

Many of the Jesuits who have been to executions have stories to tell of exceptional events that have taken place. To the average American eye, the whole execution is an exceptional event. The prisoners are marched in chained, under heavy guard, police at the ready with automatic weapons. The chains are real and heavy and make noise when the men move. This is not a Hollywood chain that moves easily or gently. They are taken to posts at the end of a little valley, a depression in the land, and are tied. This is one of the times when the presence of the priest insures that the men will not be beaten and otherwise tortured on their way to the posts. They are tied hands and feet and head and again, if the priest intervenes, the ropes tying the neck can be loosened so the prisoner is not gagging.

The priest present has a chance to talk with the men. If he knows them, if they are Catholics, he brings them communion and the last rites. If they are not Catholics, some choose this moment to be baptized. Water from a canteen frequently serves as the symbol of the sacrament. Emmanuel has seen many executions, and he talks to the men, prepares them for death, gets them to forgive their persecutors. One man protests his innocence to the very end, the other simply seems resigned to what is going to come. When the men have been baptized, Emmanuel turns to the soldiers, and in strong tones reminds them that they too will die some day, and how prepared are they to answer to Almighty God for their actions. The soldiers, young boys, I doubt any of them shave, hang their heads and refuse to catch Emmanuel's eye.

Suddenly from the bushes at one end of the valley, a squad of twenty four soldiers come jogging in, double timing. They are carrying rifles, and their faces are painted a camouflage greenish purple. The reason given is so that they won't be able to be identified. Other cultures used a hood to protect the identity of the hangman. It adds a particularly eerie touch to an already bizzarre ceremony. They jog around the posts to which the men have been tied, and then twelve assume positions in front of the prisoners. The other twelve split up into smaller groups and assume positions at angles to the squad, facing the spectators. There are about forty people present, mostly state officials and police. The soldiers from the smaller squads suddenly point their weapons at the crowd, and remain in a ready to fire position. Apparently in the past some distraught family members have tried a last minute rescue, and this is to insure that there will be no heroics today.

The priest is ordered aside, and the order is given to commence firing. It is, in the most barbaric fashion imaginable, target practice. 52 shots are fired and the order is given to cease. The doctor present goes to check the victims, and then gives the order to "Shoot some more". They are not dead yet. In some executions, the volley has been so great that the ropes holding the men have been cut, and the bodies have fallen to the ground.

Apparently, the soldiers aim at the extremities. The bodies, when they have finally ceased being men, have no bullet holes in the torso. All the wounds are in the arms and the legs, and one ear has been shot away. But there are no wounds in the head, and no wounds in the torso. Target practice indeed.

Once the men have been pronounced dead, there is no longer any official interest. The soldiers and the official spectators depart. But Emmanuel insists that the priest stay with the bodies. A garbage truck appears already filled with garbage and the two men from the truck come out of the cab. They don't want to touch the bodies, so they use machetes to hack away the ropes that still hold them to the posts, taking away chunks of flesh as they do. They gingerly take edges of the clothes and swing the bodies up into the truck, into the garbage. And they drive off, followed by Emmanuel's old and tired Peugeot. Outside the walls of the "target practice" area, there is a crowd of people who jump onto the side of the truck, and cheer. They want to see the bodies.

Emmanuel says that if the priest does not follow the truck to the garbage dump, where the bodies will be "buried" along with the load of garbage, the truck will often just dump its load along the side of a road somewhere. The destination is truly a garbage dump, and a pit has been prepared. The truck backs up to it, the men release the rear gate and lift the truck bed. As the garbage slides out into the pit, an arm, a flash of a head, part of a leg can be seen among the refuse. In a short minute that seems very long, the truck is empty. Soon a small bulldozer will come and cover over the pit. The garbage truck pulls away for another load. And Emmanuel silently drives the priest home.

The government has imposed silence on all those who attend the execution of "criminals". People who talk about the executions in public can be jailed or deported. The two men whose execution was here described were accused of committing an armed robbery. No one was shot, no victim was hurt in the robbery attempt. There are uncounted numbers of men waiting in condemned cells in prisons throughout Nigeria, victims of poverty and a justice system that is more open to the bribe and the pull of influence than almost any other sector of life in this country. Dates for execution seem to be determined almost by chance. There is usually very little warning; sometimes for the prisoners, none until they are taken from their cells.

The arrival of a telegram at the priest's house is not something anyone looks forward to.

Interlude Saying Goodbye to Pa

One of the key places to look at (or for) "cultural differences" is in what a society does with its dead. Nigeria has a variety of customs that are attached to different regions and tribes, but there is for most places a core of underlying similarity.

One of the foundational elements is the wake keeping. In a country where there are many different religions, often within a single family, wake keeping is often differentiated. Notices will announce a "Christian wake keeping from 6 until 10, and traditional wake keeping from 10 until dawn". Sometimes the Christian wake keeping will go until dawn. The style varies; going until dawn is pretty much a constant.

On September 24th, a Friday, yours truly, the ever intrepid adventurer, went with Ed Debany, the parish Priest at St. Joseph's parish in Benin City, to the Christian wake keeping for Pa Gabriel Ajayi Ojamiren, age 92. Pa Gabriel had been one of the founders of St. Joseph Parish, had been one of the builders, and one of the charter members in several of the parish societies. His family is all Catholic, and so the wake keeping and services were pretty much all christian. Ed and I and a small army of altar servers went over around 9 in the evening, but the Mass itself didn't start until after 10. Ed was very strong about waiting until more people showed up. Most folks know the Mass is early, and so many will wait until later to come over. Ed wanted to catch them, so to speak. "Those are exactly the people we want to have present at the Mass." So we waited.

The house itself is off a back street and believe me when I say that a back street in Benin City is not something for which there are easy equivalents in the U.S. The "road" was filled with craters, and because of the wake keeping, vendors had gathered outside the area, with their oil lamps providing illumination as you walked down the street to get to the house. The "house" is a series of connected single rooms with a front porch for each. Poured concrete walls, corrugated tin roof, very simple furnishings. One window at most in a room. But the chairs and tents started perhaps 100 yards before you ever got to the house, and continued across the front of the house area and on to the other side for an other 50 yards or so. There were some small fluorescent lights taped to tent poles for some illumination, and signs indicating areas reserved for special groups, families or tribal dignitaries. Floodlights illuminated the central area where the altar had been set up and where later the dancing would take place.

Visiting the widow.
The widow never attends the wake keeping. She is off in a secluded room, and people come and visit her. When "the Reverend Fathers" came, about fifteen women scurried out of the bedroom. It was a small, airless, closed in room, most of which was taken up with the bed. Mama was on the bed, and a very small one was sleeping just on the other side of her. She gathered her wrap around her, and acknowledged us. It was stifling, stuffy we strongly suggested that Mama should get out and get some air, or she would shortly be joining Gabriel. We took our own advice after a short visit.

Throughout the evening we kept meeting the family, and since Ed, who had to preach, had never met Pa, (he has only been parish priest there a couple of months) he took advantage of the meeting to learn more details about him. they had set up a small altar for us, which we immediately moved, both to be in a more central location, and to get away from some of the huge speakers that the bands had brought. You would think that moving a small table four feet in one direction would be a fairly simple event. Wrong o. It took several men, who immediately formed themselves into a committee to discuss all the pertinent ramifications, and then to supervise the actual moving of the table, which was accomplished by two small boys.

Even with the move, we found ourselves fighting the loudspeakers. but as parish priest, Ed carries a certain amount of weight, which he did not hesitate to use, and so we got one turned off and another turned down.

Viewing the body.
First thing to note is that embalming is not a Nigerian custom. Second thing to note is that Pa had died going on three weeks before the wake keeping. Third thing to note is that you begin to understand in a very concrete way why incense is so popular in countries where there is heat and no custom of embalming. Take a deep breath outside and think of something else. The corpse had cotton swabs in the nostrils, and cotton in the ears. I didn't check anywhere else. The body was lying in state, on what seemed to be a platform. Then I noticed hooks and eyes at the corners, and I realized it was a fold up coffin. When it came time to move the body, the sides would be raised, hooked together and off we would go. The room was hung with drapes, lace curtain hangings, and was very attractive. We entered, after a short wait for water with which to bless the body, and we prayed over the body and blessed it. Just as we were finishing, the video crew that was filming the evening arrived, and so we blessed the body, again prayed some more shorter, the camera didn't need much footage.

During the course of the evening, many of the wake keepers would both pay their respects to Mama and visit the body. The family controls numbers, and observes the local protocols as to age, status and so forth. In terms of local pecking order, the Reverend Fathers (at least at a Christian wake keeping), rank right near the top of the VIP list. Once we had paid our respects, we vested and began the Mass. Because of the size of the crowd, and the tents and being outside, some amplification was necessary. And after the group had been singing, everyone was slightly deaf anyway, so the celebrant needed to be amplified just to keep up. The Mass itself was fairly straightforward. The video crew was omnipresent, and more than a little distracting as they snaked around getting crowd shots and reactions, and trying to document everything that went on as well. The light man accompanying the camera was running a power cord, and at one point, I noticed that the camera man's light cord had coiled itself around the foot of one of the daughters as she was doing the responsorial psalm. Ed spent most of the evening sweating; not nerves, just heat. At Communion, I picked one spot and Ed picked another and we let the people find us and try to figure out traffic patterns. One of the nice aspects of a moment like that is that there is no rush no Mass immediately following, no concern about a crowd in the parking lot, no pressure to be somewhere else. After all, we were all there to honor Pa, and he certainly wasn't going anywhere.

After communion, at the urging of the pastor, Fr. John sang a little something. I didn't know what to sing that would be appropriate, so I changed a couple of the words, and sang Parting Glass, the old pub closing song except I changed it into a man saying farewell to his family and friends. Which it is. Sort of. And then as the closing hymn ended, the band picked up the tempo, and we moved directly into dancing.

"Spraying" the family, dancing.
Two customs to explain. One is the dancing. There is dancing throughout the evening (after the Mass) right up until dawn. All the family will dance first they can be easily identified because all will be wearing the same "cloth" the dresses for the women, and the outfits for the men are all made of the same material, picked by the family for the occasion, but that becomes the funeral "cloth". (At the funeral Mass the next day, some of the family was in the same cloth as the night before, but there was a second "cloth", more Western, less native, but again, shirts for the men and dresses for the women were made of the same stuff.) As they dance, people will come and "spray" them, stick money to their foreheads. Little ones (from the family) with boxes go between the dancers and collect the money. It is a way for the community to help with the expenses of the funeral and the wake keeping. And it can't be cheap. At Pa Gabriel's and Pa was not a rich man there were three bands, tents, loudspeaker systems and lights, and every person attending received food and drink. I would guess four hundred in attendance, but with people coming and going it could well have been more.

When the family has danced, others will dance through the evening, and again, spraying will go on, with the money all going to the family. I talked with the Master of Ceremonies and early in the proceedings he had a list of sixteen groups that wanted to dance as groups there would also be dancing for just everybody. The first band played for us during the Mass, and as they finished the Mass, moved right into a set of dancing. After a short break, and an opening prayer intoned in full Gospel style by yours truly the second band swung into action. Thumbnail review more equipment than talent. They had a featured singer, who appeared after several numbers dressed rather like a Jamaican Santa Claus on a low budget bells around his feet, great floppy curls, and more energy than focus. They played for the rest of the time that I was present. I never did get to hear the third band. Of course, after several hours of the second band, I wasn't hearing anything with the clarity I would have wished.

I wasn't the only one who had problems with the band. The dancing never really got off the ground. Part of it, I suspect, was the band. And part of the problem was that by tradition, the family dances first. But the family was all busy serving food and carrying great crates of drinks and greeting guests, so that several calls for the family to come forward and dance were met with a singular absence of people. There was one man, a senior driver with a leather baseball cap, who had come prepared with a great wad of money for spraying, and he couldn't find anyone to spray. It was very funny to watch his frustration grow even the children of the family wouldn't dance. Finally he got to one of the microphones and made an impassioned speech about how important it was to keep up the Bini traditions. Even after that, he still couldn't give away his money.

Big John, a fixture around the parish, more than slightly retarded and harmless about 85% of the time, showed up, and spent the evening quietly dancing in place right smack in front of one of the columns of speakers. The speakers were taller than John is, and what the inside of his head was like by the end of the evening and he stayed until dawn is beyond imagining. (Of course, in John's case, that is true at almost any time.)

Distributing the food is a major logistical event. They bring out great coolers, ice chests, filled with rice, and smaller bowls with stew, pieces of meat, and members of the family work in teams, putting together plates and passing them out. It looked like a small but highly energized catering service, all dressed in the same outfits, funeral cloth moving every where. They took care of the honoured guests first including the Reverend Fathers and then started to feed the masses. Children handled drinks, and everyone helped with collecting plates. And it was going to go on until dawn. We quit and I got home around 1am.

Burying bodies. Or, When the grave fits, wear it.
There are only just starting to be small cemeteries, and they are not much used. The tradition is that the loved one is buried in the house. Of course, it is a rule that you have to own the property. One does not bury father, assuming of course that he is dead, in rented ground. Bill Scanlon tells of one funeral where he was officiating, and after the Mass, everyone repaired to the family property, where Papa was going to be interred in the living room. Under the floor, of course. It was pouring rain.

When the funeral party arrived, they discovered that the grave diggers were still at work. So the men sat around and drank beer, and the women worked at preparing the food to feed everyone. Every now and then the grave diggers would stop and demand more money, and a collection would be taken up and they would continue. After a while, the word came that the diggers were done, and so the coffin was lifted up and carried in. The room was small and filled with people solid so the coffin ended up being passed overhead until it got the center of the room.

Where it was discovered that the excavation was not large enough to accommodate the box. So the coffin was passed back overhead from hand to hand, the men returned to their drinking and the grave diggers returned to their digging. It took three trips of that body back and forth before the grave diggers got the hole the right size. After the second trip, it was suggested by an unhappy family member that the grave diggers were doing this on purpose, in order to get more money (and those who ought to know about such things tell me that he was probably right.) It then was strongly intimated to the diggers that they finish up properly with no further collections or they would find themselves in the hole they were digging. They did Papa was buried and the celebrations continued.

In Pa Gabriel's case, the burial was to be in his home town, "an hour's drive away" we were assured. Fr. Tony Okure, who was ordained with me, is currently serving at St. Joseph's, and he celebrated the funeral Mass. He was also the burying priest, so away he went. We next saw Tony late on Saturday night, when he returned to report that the family village is more like two and a half hours away. Seems the Nigerians share with the Irish the desire to please a questioner, and if they feel you will be distressed at learning the distance of destination, they obligingly alter the estimate to something more palatable. Reality is a slippery concept in Nigeria.

Some General and Fairly Unconnected Thoughts and Reflections
and Observations and Wanderings
During and as A Result of the Retreat I Conducted for the
Priests of the Okigwe Diocese from
September 26 to October 2nd.

Mosquitos bigger than sparrow hawks

That sinking feeling when you are shown your room and quickly notice that there is one tap on the sink, mosquito netting on the bed, and one plug, nearly hidden, in the most inaccessible corner of the room. (Of course, later you discover that they only turn on the generator after it gets dark, so there is no power during the day anyway which does great things for your dream of working on your computer, and what about using the tape player during the retreat? Thank God for batteries which I promptly sent someone out to buy.)

No screens on the windows. Or anywhere else.
Everyone carries flashlights everywhere.

Cooking for this whole seminary is done over an open fire out in the back. There are about fifty here now including priests on retreat and assorted staff. When the students are present, the population jumps to over 500. And there is no kitchen just a couple of fires and several long trestle tables out back. Which is what my window opens on, so I can have what little breeze stirs and be immediately open to the whole back compound or I can have minimal privacy, and roast. And the aromas of the compound come in to keep me company no matter which option I choose.

Did I mention seeing a fan in my room? Nope. Of course, a fan needs electricity to work. Silly me.

I am making this sound worse than it is. Hmmm, let me think about that. Well, there are indoor toilets and they flush. There is a bathtub with one spigot and a large red plastic bucket, so you can take a "shower". The water in the room runs and stops on command.

Each day, troops of young men carry buckets of water up a ladder and dump them into the tank which feeds the house. I haven't had the nerve to ask yet where they get it from. The water I drink is, they assure me, boiled. If I die, I assume someone will someday find this letter buried deep in the bowels of my computer and will use it as the basis for a major wrongful death suit. Wrongful death, heck, go for Murder 1.

Toto, we're not only not in Kansas, I don't even think we're still on the studio lot. This group despite several invitations to relax and be less formal all dress in cassocks. For meals and for talks. A sea of white dresses and black faces looking up at me. Yes, up, for I am sitting behind a white draped desk on a platform in a large classroom. One little speck of red the Bishop's zuchetta. At Mass in the morning, not only does everyone wear a stole, almost all put on a separate cassock over their daily wear cassock, and many bring their own chausable with them. I'm afraid my fairly informal style tends to jar them a little although they have managed to intimidate me enough to wear my soutane for Mass. And a stole. Okay, I admit it, I can be intimidated.

At the beginning of Mass all come up to venerate the altar, and at communion, each priest comes to take his own host and either drink from the cup or dip it in. So much for ministering. All very formal lots of bowing and genuflecting. And yet not very good liturgy.

I have a houseboy. Well, actually, a room boy. The first morning I went to Mass here, I returned to discover that my room had been swept, the bed made, the mosquito netting lovingly tucked atop the bed, and all my dirty sweaty laundry had been carefully hung up on hangers. He will do washing for me, I have been informed but for the moment, I am simply hiding my laundry before I leave the room. I'll wait until I have a load and let him do all at once, rather than every day. He also irons. I wonder if he's willing to move to Lagos? He's probably a minor seminarian, who will, once ordained, wreak havoc on his servants once he gets to be a priest, as revenge for all the washing he had to do. His name is Victor.

I watched one of the boys in the compound do some ironing today. I had seen the utensil, and I was keeping an eye out to see the skill practiced. Last time I saw one of these things was in the American History Museum in Morristown. (Morrisville? Never could keep those straight.) It is a cast iron iron (okay critics, you try to describe it without being redundant!) with a top that opens. The top opens so you can put in the hot coals. (Would I make this up?) Once the coals are in, you close it, and then swing it around in a circle so the coals come in tight contact with the plate. Then you go and iron for a little, then open the top, blow on the coals, swing around, iron, and so forth. And these guys washing in a basin, drying on a line, and ironing as described above do beautiful work on lace trimmed cassocks, pleated cassocks, altar linens, delicately worked and embroidered native shirts. Very impressive. Goats in the compound too, beside several households. And the kitchen I mentioned earlier. Also a couple of cats.

This afternoon I was quietly praying in my room the curtains were back so the breeze, such as it is, could come through. In. Whatever. That also meant the bugs could come in but that has its own fascination, because I have seen a couple of crawly things that I swear I have never seen before. (I saw one today that I thought I recognized but the one I am thinking of is highly poisonous, so I'm probably wrong but I gave it a wide berth just in case.) Anyway, there I was praying merrily away, and at my window appears a large hawk. We're talking a 4 foot wingspread here, folks not flapping, just gently soaring low, took a quick look in and moved on. Most impressive. And over the course of the next hour, he returned twice more. (Yes, you mystically minded reader, three times!) Whether he was hunting for mice, or eying the cat, or curious about the bearded white dude, I don't know. But it added a lovely dimension to prayer.

George the mosquito last night thought he had died and gone to heaven. Here he was, all by himself, inside the mosquito net with a large, naked white person. Heaven, indeed. I must in all honesty, however, also report that before the night was out, George had, in fact, died. Whether or not he went to heaven I will leave to a more competent authority to register.

By the third day, I am well into the routine. Today I counted fourteen hawks might have been more, but they would not stand still. And at one point, I was in my room praying (I add these little details to give the scene some life, and also to subtly impress you with how much I pray) and a shadow flew by the window and I heard the sound of something large landing on the roof of the building next to mine. I got up to look out the window I love the big birds, and I wanted to see one of these hawks still. Aha, not a hawk (the others are/were hawks) but the two on the roof were buzzards. Vultures. Whatever. Right out of a Disney cartoon long necks, ring of feathers at the base of the neck, long wicked looking beaks, and an evil expression in the eye that seems to say, "Lunch. You are lunch. All the world is lunch." Fascinating. Yesterday I had wondered what symbolism I could attach to the hawks. I wondered again when I saw so many of them. When the buzzards landed (Hinkley is about 12,000 miles that way, guys) I gave up trying for symbols.

Silence is a relative concept. Several priests have come in to tell me that this is the first silent retreat they've ever had, and how wonderful it is. To me, it sounds like the IRT at 5:45. Or the matinee crowd at the Majestic before the overture starts. I keep reminding myself that my job is not to judge or evaluate just give them the material, and get out of the way so God can do whatever it is He would like done this week.

One of the attractions of a visiting priest is confession. These guys all know each other, so for sins they don't want to tell someone they know, enter Fr. Visitor. In this case, a bearded Jesuit from Lagos. At first I was moved at the confidence and trust they were giving to me. Then I realized it was because on Saturday I will be returning to the other end of the country, and with luck, they'll never see me again.

Have I ever mentioned sticks? In particular the sticks that take the place of toothbrushes? No one here uses a toothbrush but several times a day people people faithfully manipulate their gums and whatever else they find inside their mouths with sticks. Seems to work, I guess myself, I'll stick with the bristles, preferably the ones that spin and rotate and massage and do all the work for you. (Although that kind needs electricity, doesn't it? Silly me. Again.)

Cultural gaps. I gave a conference today on Palm/Passion Sunday, and Jesus riding into Jerusalem, and I talked a lot about my friend Ken Feit and foolishness. I started at the back of this long conference room with my portable tape deck, playing the Hosanna from Andrew Lloyd Weber's Requiem and processed up the aisle, all by myself holding the deck in front of me. I turned, faced the audience, and raised the deck over my head. Only then did they see I was wearing a red clown nose.

No reaction. A hesitant laugh from one or two but generally, no reaction. Afterwards one of the priests asked me what the nose was. Aha! A red nose is not a universal symbol. Or object. It was still a startling moment for them, although not quite as I had planned. More like wondering if this Oybo priest had finally lost track of what cosmic plane he really was in. Took a minute to get them back.

To help keep them serious about their retreat, I told them I would be fasting during the week. Sunday night dinner and then nothing until Friday. Wednesday morning was rough I realized that not only was I not drinking enough water, I had been perspiring freely and had no salt intake. A quick does of oral rehydration salts (which the experienced traveller always carries around with him) and I was back in shape. The fasting has given me a certain aura, and is helping to keep the silence and the focus. When I go and sit at a meal and run the tape machine for a reading or for music, it is much quieter than if I let someone else do it.

Having the Bishop present at all the events is nice too. A gentle charming man, who is really making his own retreat, not simply sitting in. In three days, he has gone back to his office once. The rest of the time, he is living and praying here at the seminary just like the other priests. Now he has a separate room in the Rector's House, and eats alone in the dining room in the house rather than with the masses but in everything else, he is present and accounted for, setting an example, leading at the devotions very impressive.

Rained today. Hard. Looking out the window I realized that all the cooking and food and fires were outside. What happens, I wondered to myself, when it rains? Obvious the people and the food and the utensils get wet. The fire is under the pots, so it is fine, and everything else gets wet. Oybo ask the stupidest questions.

An aside as I skim through this, I realize that the tone set is not quite complete. I feel obliged to note that most of what really went on during the week besides my preaching (which was brilliant) but the visits with the men, counseling, hearing confessions all of this is covered by a confidentiality that makes it difficult if not impossible to communicate what a rich week it was. Frustrations? In droves. Disappointments? A bunch. But also for me at least a time of great prayer, and deep consolation. Also moments of humor and cultural intrigue. But I would be false to the week if I did not at least try to indicate that it was more than a series of entertaining vignettes. I keep hearing from the men, and from the Bishop, what an extraordinary spiritual experience this is for them, that they have never had a retreat like this, that they find the silence so rewarding.

I was sitting in my room reading, and I noticed that wasps seemed to be flying in my window at a rate more than simple coincidence or the prevailing breezes would suggest. A little investigation, and I found that there was a nest built under the sink. Oh joy. Having learned as a boy that one of the things one does not want to do is disturb a nest of wasps, I contented myself with brutally killing any wasp that came in the window. By the end of the afternoon there was a little pile of dead wasp outside the door to the room, and a slightly more contented and relaxed reader inside. And a wasp's nest with room for future potential inhabitants once I have left.

(Reminiscence when I was little and we were living at the house on Cold Soil Road, we were co inhabitors with a lot of wasps. Unfortunately I was at an age where I occasionally got my consonants reversed. And so my mother one day, deeply engaged in conversation with the Italian foreman who was supervising the carpenters who were working upstairs, heard me exclaim with some alarm, "Mommy, there are wops upstairs!" She hastened to explain my temporary speech impediment to the foreman, and hustled me away for a different kind of explaining. I suppose that is why I have always been so fussy about diction.)

Tremendous rain last night (well it is the rainy season) which turns everything into mud. But the thunder and lightning and the great rain were wonderful for sleeping. Unfortunately, the dramatic combination of the elements more than a little disturbed our friends the goats, several of the younger ones especially, who on being separated from their mothers, made their distress audible. Loud even. In particular the one little one who took shelter under my window. I tried to find the beauty in it, tried to use it to help me get back to sleep. Finally I arose, stood at the window and growled menacingly. Goat decided that whatever was behind the curtain was worse than the weather and headed off for other shelter. I headed off for bed. Thank you, Detective Belker.

The Bishop was the principal celebrant this morning, and preached the homily. He would preach for a little, in English, and then start to sing. And everybody else would sing along. (In Igbo.) And then he would preach some more, and then they would sing some more. No one seemed in the least startled, so I guess it is an established technique. Kind of fun breaks up the homily. When I celebrated Mass here the first morning, the 7AM Mass ended at 7:40. When the Bishop celebrated, the 7 AM Mass ended at 8:20. Cultural difference indeed!

The singing is really rather extraordinary. At each conference there are three each day as I enter, the priests all stand and sing. I have no idea what they are singing, but they are very impressive. They sing in parts, and echoes and counter melodies and the blended sound, all heavy (untrained) male voices is thrilling. They sing at Mass, they sing at meals apparently a cultural pillar. At the end of the closing conference, they all stood and sang to me some special tribal song of thanksgiving. I told them it was good to know that if the diocese ever got in financial trouble they could make a record and sell it. (Of course this is all in Igbo for all I know it could have been an ancient song about chopping the white man up into little pieces and offering him to a god. But it was lovely.)

I was in my room on the last afternoon (reading, praying, whatever) and heard a great cackling and squawking outside. I looked out the window, and saw one of the reverend sisters, with two chickens in each hand, grasped firmly by the feet, heading purposefully out toward the woodpile. Where they keep the axe.

I think we may be having chicken for supper tonight. Fresh, not frozen. One of the inhabitants of the compound is a young boy who spends hours playing with a deflated soccer ball. Sitting on the ground, it rather resembles an army helmet, round on top and flat on the bottom. This does not seem to slow him down, as he endlessly practices dribbling, kicking, throwing the ball into the air with both feet, feinting his way around imaginary opponents. When he tires of this, the ball becomes a seat, or a pillow, or a hat, or just something he carries around. He probably would find a round ball filled with air somewhat limiting.

I do startle them. On Friday, the nation celebrated Independence Day (October 1st). At Mass, after communion, just as the celebrant was preparing to rise from his chair and begin the final prayer, from the back of the chapel I arose, and said that around the world at each Shabbot Service, Jews prayed for peace. I had earlier talked about the Seder Service at Passover, and that it was the youngest who traditionally asked the four questions. I said that since I was the newest to Nigeria, I was the youngest, and that it was perhaps appropriate that I offer a prayer for peace. Then I sang the Sim Shalom.

At the first conference that day, I wore a green and white striped shirt. (The Nigerian colors are green and white.) It was kind of a lark, and I had only planned on wearing it for the first gathering, but they were so impressed and grateful, I kept it for the rest of the day. Americans are much more ostentatious in our use of the flag and patriotic colors than in most other countries. And in many places, there is a certain reluctant envy of the way we do things. Oh, people will carp and talk loudly about American crassness and over emphasis on the flag, but at the same time, they rather wish that their own country were a little more like that.

A Jesuit and a Dominican were sitting under a tree together praying their breviary when the Jesuit lit up a cigarette. The Dominican was horrified. "You can't do that!" he exclaimed. The Jesuit didn't see why not, but agreed to put the matter to the Pope. So the Dominican went to see the Pope, and asked if he were permitted to smoke while he was praying. The Pope said certainly not, it was out of the question. And the Dominican bowed out of the Papal presence.

The Jesuit then came to see the Holy Father, and after the proper formalities were observed, he asked the Pope if he were permitted to pray while he was smoking. And the Holy Father said certainly. And the Jesuit too left.

Feel free to end the story any way you want.

The dinner on the final evening, after the retreat was over and silence such as it was had been concluded, was a joyous celebration. First of all, it was the first food I had eaten in five days. True to my word, I had fasted during the five days of the retreat, and this child of God was hungry! (Minor miracle five days of fasting, no weight loss.) Knowing this, the Reverend Sisters had made a special plate for the Reverend Father, and with a great appetite but a much smaller stomach I was faced with a plate piled high with two pieces of chicken, roast potato, sliced yam, and a great mound of peas. And wine. And beer. And champagne for the toasts later on.

There was a toast to the Pope and a toast here includes a speech, usually a funny story or two, a song and a toast, at which every glass in the place must be clinked against every other glass in the place. Then there was a toast to the Bishop and the diocese. Then there was a long and particularly embarrassing toast to the revered retreat moderator (That's how they kept referring to me throughout the week the revered retreat moderator. Every homily, every talk, every toast began by acknowledging the Bishop, the revered retreat moderator, and my fellow priests.) Then two other fathers made speeches about what a wonderful retreat it had been. Then I got to respond, and I sang a song. Then the Bishop made a long speech, mostly about me, which, being an experienced theatre person, I was able to keep in the proper social perspective. (If I believed half of what he said about me, I would be positively unbearable to be around.) It was a great night, with much joking and laughing and singing. Celebration in the best sense.

The next morning Mass was at 6:30. I was praying quietly in the chapel when the Rector came up and said I was to be celebrant. Hmmm instant homily time. Feast of the Guardian Angels. Now what sleeve does this one live up? Because of a major diocesan event that day the funeral of a priest there were only about six priests present. But the Rector had brought in about 75 boys from the seminary as well, so I did a homily about angels and messages I won't rehash it here, but for an ad lib, it was pretty good. And breakfast, and then one of the priests drove me to Benin City. The drive that had taken us almost 7 hours going east, he did going west in just over 4. I discover, looking at the map, that my driver going had gone in seven different directions. But this priest was a maniac he has a good car, well tuned, he obviously believes that his eternal salvation is assured, and so he successfully passes in places that Richard Petty would think twice about. And we had heavy heavy rain most of the way. In clear weather, he could probably cut thirty minutes off even that.

It was a fascinating, wonderful, inspiring, rewarding week. And I'm tired. The next several days belong to me. I think I'll re read Lord of the Rings. And not answer the phone.
==============================

So here it is October, and I am about to put another of the Sheehan missives to bed. I think that everyone should have a nickname, and I have decided that mine should be TOAB. Which is an acronym, describing the uselessness of lactating devices on the male of the bovine species. Which ought to answer any continuing questions you have about my feelings about what I am or am not doing over here. Great country, lovely people but in terms of my being needed, I could have phoned this assignment in. The container shipment is somewhere on the high seas, so sometime in December, I should be reunited with the basic texts and notes, and maybe I will be able to make a serious stab at getting a complete first draft of this thesis together and over to Canada, so I can find out from my mentor just how far away I am from completing the last of the degrees. Now exactly how a Licentiate in Old Testament is going to increase my usefulness is not something that is immediately aparent, but it will at least be something completed.

At the moment there seems to a war on the Jesuits one of our guys thinks we have been cursed by a witch. Jack Ryan broke his leg, Steve Astill has a virus infection which has swollen his knee up to about twice its normal size, Joe Schuyler is still in the States recovering from hip replacement and eye surgery, Eamon Taylor was visiting in the States and just had a heart attack, Michael Madubuko had a great gash in his leg, and Bill Scanlon has a bad case of typhoid. (He's in our house we live together eat from the same plates. I can hardly wait to see what I come down with.) We answer the phone now with a certain wariness.

As I write this, the NEPA (electricity) has been out for two straight days, and we are trying to keep the generator going enough to keep the fridges from defrosting, but at the same time keeping an eye on fuel. The government has just ordered the universities to open some have been closed for 16 months but there is no money to pay the increased salaries the government mandated to end the strike, so no one is sure what will happen. The Press Decree is still in force, a number of papers are still closed, the government just dissolved the governing boards of several agencies that control fuel and gas, and the head of the petroleum board has resigned. The Interim Government is still talking about a new election, the greater part of the country is still opposed, and the future looks interesting. The official exchange rate for the Naira is 22 to an American dollar. On the street, you can get 42, and if there were not a severe shortage of Naira I mean the actual physical bills the rate would be even higher. Sound like a formula for fiscal collapse?

So, great hugs and love and prayers to you all even to readers whom I do not know. And should I not get another letter out before Christmas, know that as we hang little red balls on our swamp plant in the living room, and try not to sweat too badly onto what by then should be the new furniture in the living room, I will be thinking of you all, and hoping that 1994 will bring you all sorts of terrific surprises.

Letters sent to me get here faster and more safely if they are sent to me, c/o Fr. Wood at Kohlmann Hall, 501 East Fordham Rd, Bronx, NY 10458. He regularly sends over courier pouches, since we have officially given up on the Nigerian postal service. Until whenever....