Zakes Mda - Cion

“My memories ain’t got no memory of their own,” says Mahlon quietly. “I can only tell what the ghost trees tell me.”

He is defensive, but I was not trying to blame him for anything. I don’t want to agitate him. It was not easy to convince him to come here. He is still unhappy with Orpah and did not want to involve himself in anything that has to do with me. It was only after Obed sat out on the porch with him and showed him that he would not be coming here for me or for Orpah or for anybody else but his own mother. Ruth also helped to persuade him. When he got into the GMC this morning he kept on repeating that he was only doing this for his wife.

Ruth asks Obed to lead us in prayer. It is at this stage that I begin my mourning routine. I do not sit on the mound as I usually do. There is no mound to sit on. But also I want to perform the mourning. For the first time in my mourning career I want to perform. I want to dance to my wails. And I wail my laments so loud that the trees begin to shake and shed more leaves. I howl and growl and cry like the wind. Tears run from my eyes like the waters of the Hocking River. I incorporate some of the movements I saw Mahlon perform through the window. My whole performance routine, except for the sounds, is informed by his routine.

Mahlon recognizes himself in my movements and breaks out laughing. Everybody looks at him in astonishment. Mahlon has not laughed for ages.

I screech like an animal in pain. I am drenched in sweat and tears. I perform variations that draw from his movements. I can see that he is mesmerized. Orpah is open-mouthed. Obed is wide-eyed. Ruth is befuddled. This is the crowning glory of my mourning since I arrived in this country. I continue furiously for about an hour. Then I fall down in utter exhaustion.

Mahlon breaks out into applause. The others join him and they applaud for a long time. Even Ruth applauds, albeit briefly.

Mahlon helps me up. There is a glint in his eyes. He says, very softly as if he does not want the others to hear: “We must die so the earth should continue.” I whisper back: “The earth is a cannibal. It feeds on our corpses. That’s how it continues.”

Obed gives me a quarter.

“A professional mourner must be paid,” he says. The man has learned fast.

Orpah is jumping about in excitement.

“We should of brought our costumes, Daddy,” she screams. “I wanna be a mourner. I wanna mourn with you. We gonna mourn up a storm!”

Mahlon embraces her. The ice is melting.

“That was silly,” says Ruth laughing aloud. “Good, but silly.”

“Thank you, Son of Egypt,” says Mahlon.

It sounds like a term of endearment when it comes from Mahlon.

October 31. The seasons have come full cycle and the creatures have returned to Court Street. The madness is mild for the night is still young. As it ages the pagans will rage on the paved street. Many of them are still in the process of transforming themselves, stealing identities from American cultural and fictional icons. Fueling their bodies with the spirits that will give them pluck to be as free-spirited as the occasion warrants.

Quite a few of the pagans are here already. Grown men in diapers are strutting about. They mingle with cowgirls and pirate wenches in miniskirts. Giant spoons dance with giant forks. The uninspired superheroes are obviously the staple of the parade. They were here in great numbers last year — Superman, Spiderman, the Incredible Hulk, Batman and the rest. They are here again this year — the last resort for a lazy pagan who can’t think of original ideas for the night.

This is a day of saints, although the pagans don’t recognize the fact. None of the saints with whom I aspired to socialize at the Durham Cathedral will be seen here tonight. No Venerable Bede. No St. Cuthbert. This is also the day of the disembodied spirits of those who died last year. They come back in search of living bodies to possess for the next year. That is their only chance of an afterlife. The Court Street creatures, of course, do not have in their minds the Celtic roots of the feast as they prance around, even though their ghoulishness is reminiscent of the original Celts. It was a look that was meant to frighten the disembodied spirits away so that they fail to take possession of any living man, woman or child.

I follow Orpah. We elbow our way through the crowds. She looks sensual in a nun’s habit — black flowing gown, white collar, black veil with white headpiece, rubber sandals, a rosary for a belt. She bought it especially for the occasion at an East State Street mall. I, on the other hand, am in my regular mourning costume.

We stop to watch a man frying on the street. His whole body is made of rashers of bacon. He is squirming as a girl made of deep yellow yolk and white albumen is dancing around him. She has red horns on her head; she is deviled egg. Orpah is enjoying this bacon and egg show and she is laughing like there is no tomorrow. I have never seen Orpah so carefree.

As we move on I am struck by the absence of politicians this year. No Dick Cheney. No Donald Rumsfeld. No George W. Bush. No Jimmy Carter. Unless they will invade the parade later in the night. But the usual enemies in Arab garb are here. And an odd renegade with an unpalatable statement about Guantánamo Bay: Charge or Release Detainees . The slogan sounds very familiar. It takes me back to years ago. Protesters used to chant it during the apartheid years of detention-without-trial in South Africa. During those sad times in the history of that country politicians said their normal laws of due process could not deal with terrorism. It was therefore necessary to do away with the niceties of habeas corpus. Exactly as they are saying here. The state was under threat, the apartheid government said, the country was at war. Civil liberties were undermined, and white citizens accepted that it was for their protection. Until they woke up one day and found that they had been living a lie. Even their own liberties as citizens had been eroded. Not only the enemy’s. I have gone back in time. Things have come full cycle. Lessons have been learned well.

Besides the Guantánamo Bay man I do not see as many political statements as I saw at the last parade, which was in an election year — except for the bejeweled Billionaires for Bush whose messages on their placards are Bring the Troops Back Home and No Billionaire Left Behind.

Instead of hard-core politics we are entertained by a fight between a white cock and a yellow chicken, Milli Vanilli dancing down the street, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz cuddling with Raggedy Ann and a bluegrass band at the corner of Court and Washington Streets.

We stop here for a while. I wish Orpah had brought her sitar with her. She would liven up things with this very dull band. She doesn’t seem to think it is dull though. She is giggling and softly singing along. She has been giggling a lot today. Since we left Kilvert this morning. She is excited like a little girl. The journey we are about to undertake fills her with joy. It fills me with joy too. Especially because she is part of the journey.

Days of blissful mourning await us.

We spent the better part of September perfecting our lamentations — our plan was to leave early in October in search of the Virginia mourners. I did not know who they were, nor where in Virginia they were located. The sciolist didn’t know either. All he had were rumors of their existence. Orpah and I talked about them. We imagined what they did and romanticized them. We were rehearsing for Virginia. After that we would go where the mourning wind blew us.