It's the weekend, therefore it must be a funeral. Don't mean to sound glib or flippant, but that does seem to be an unwritten rule here. Another person C knew died earlier in the week and was buried yesterday. We just go to the actual burial today on the deceased's family land. Being at the back of very large crowd, we see practically nothing. However, listening to the supplied music, I have sneaky feeling that it is the same brass band.
The tradition appears to be that all people from the neighbourhood attend the burial, whether they went to the service or not, or even If they didn't know them well. This is to ensure no-one in the area looks forgotten when their time comes. Consequently, there is a real mishmash of clothing on display. Some women look very smart in the traditional, colourful matching African dress- top combos, complete with contrasting head dress. Whatever traditional clothing men used to where is very much replaced by the black suit, or at least black shirt. Other people look like they're not sure what they are attending: one woman has a skin tight black leggings and black scarf, finished off by a grey "Canadian Drinking Team" t-shirt.
We make a brief visit to the cyber cafe, to read and reply to all of C's emails from around the world. A walk next door to the bar, and C is regaling me with some very illuminating, and frankly unprintable, tales of white/black people interaction stories from recent years. There is inevitably football on in the background. C watches Chelsea score and two black Chelsea players celebrating together. "The blacks are winning!" I'm informed.
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