Dzaleka/Dowa
October 12, 2025
Dear Shabani,
How have you been? Today, I missed you so much. I cannot stop thinking of some of the days we spent together. Do you remember Tchomba, my colleague? I guess I never told you where I was coming from that Friday night, five years ago, when I knocked at your door late at night.
I attended a funeral with Tchomba, who lost his grandma on October 16, 2020. A lot happened that day. Although I was born and grew up in the DRC, I never knew that some Congolese cultures had such crazy customs like the ones I witnessed then.
The funeral was held in Uvira, at Tchomba’s family compound. It was 13 km from my home. The funeral was attended by lots of people, as Tchomba’s grandmother was a well-known woman, due to the fact that she was the coach of a women’s football team, and a member of one of the largest tribes in the DRC, the Luba. The attendees at this funeral included men, women, young people, albinos, handicapped people, and even the elderly.
That ceremony started in the morning at around 9 a.m. I decided to attend it after going to an hour-long workshop at school that morning. That day at Tchomba’s, I chose to sit in the back where I could clearly see everything that was happening, as I had previously been told that the ceremonies at a Luba funeral were terrifying. They do not bury their dead like the other tribes from the DRC. This is why I took the opportunity to come and see whether the rumors were true. I went with my neighbor Salumu, who sat on my right side. Together, we took a deep breath and waited impatiently to see what was going to happen.
After a while, the moment everyone was waiting for arrived. A group of two women and three men, wearing traditional clothes made of animal skins, started performing some of their traditional rituals. The three women slept on the floor facing down, while the men stepped onto their backs and then stepped off again. They each did this five times. Then they all sat down with their legs tied, their hands holding their hips, and their faces turned to the sky with their eyes closed. Their mouths moved, as if they were saying words which couldn’t be heard. They did this for almost thirteen minutes in front of everyone. After this, three men wearing blue jeans and white shirts performed a traditional song for about nine minutes. This song was sung in Luba.
Then came a group of eight people. Two of them held local guitars made of simple wood, three of them microphones, and the other three traditional drums made of animal skins. Together they performed a song. Some of them played the local instruments, and the others sang while dancing. This third group performed for around thirty minutes. They were the ones who took up the most time among the groups of people that performed at Tchomba’s grandma’s burial.
About five minutes after they were done, a man stood before everyone and told the deceased’s life story: where she had been born, who had given birth to her, what she used to do for a living, and what had happened to her in her life up until the day she passed away. When this man was done speaking, some family members came to the front to say something about the dead. There were a total of five people, and it took eleven minutes for them to finish saying what they wanted to say. Some of them failed to speak because they were crying the whole time.
After this, a silence fell over the compound. Then we saw a tall elderly man walking to the front. He was all dark, as if his whole body were covered with black paint; even his face was not visible. He was wearing a chitenge that was multicolored. His body was generating smoke, and everyone strained to see him and hear what he had to say. Suddenly, he took the microphone, which was on the front table, and said, “Chiiik, chiiik, chraaaaah! Tuntu ebwele sopalakoni.” Meaning, “The first person who leaves this place will be the next to pass away.” There was a murmur in the compound, as people appeared to be surprised and intimidated at the same time. Then everyone started talking to each other.
The elderly man’s words led to a terrible day, as no one dared to leave the compound. Everyone just stayed in place. Even people who were 60, 70, or 85 years old didn’t move. They appeared to know what happened at Luba burials. Not like me, who just sat there quietly and felt intimidated, not knowing what to do. I asked my friend Salumu, as he was also aware of the Luba’s customs, “Who told us to come here? See how things just got worse?” “Do not panic, these are traditional things, just do not leave this place first, that’s all,” Salumu said. “What if no one leaves? Are we going to stay here forever?” I asked him. “No way, someone will just have to leave first,” he answered. I kept quiet, but my entire body was trembling in fear.
From Thursday morning until Friday night, the situation remained the same. We had a meal in the afternoon, after the performances, and spent the night there in the compound. The church led the burial from noon to night; they preached and sang religious songs until everyone fell asleep. Early the next day, everyone was given a breakfast of boiled cassava and a cup of porridge. Then at around nine, the same performances as yesterday started again. This went on until 2 p.m., when they gave us lunch and let us rest until 6 p.m., when the ceremonies started again. We stayed there watching the burial ceremonies continue.
That second evening, I wondered when I would leave that place. I asked Salumu, “Aren’t our parents going to panic because of our day-and-a-half disappearance from home?” Salumu said, “No, we will explain everything to them, and they will understand because they know how Luba burials work.” “Let’s hope so!” I said.
As we waited with no hope for a positive outcome, a girl escaped from her mom. Everyone looked at her as she headed for the exit of the compound. No one could believe it. Her mother, confused, shouted desperately after her daughter, “Charlie, come back, please! Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!” But the girl did not stop. She kept going, reached the door of the compound, and went straight out. It seemed like she was not aware of what the elderly man had said, or maybe she was just reckless. It appeared that the Luba traditions do not allow anyone to stop someone who wants to leave the burial, because no one followed her to try to stop her. Even her mother was just screaming; she did not take a single step toward her.
We all sat there surprised with our mouths half open. A murmur rose up. A lady who was sitting behind us whispered, “Is she not going to die?” The man next to her answered, “Of course she is. This always happens, I even witnessed it in 2005, when one of my neighbors passed away because of leaving first during a Luba burial.” “Oooh hell no! That’s awkward,” the lady said. This increased my fear, and I couldn’t breathe peacefully anymore.
Salumu told me, “Stand up, let’s go, it’s time.” I said, “Are you sure?” “Yeah, let’s go, brother.” “Alright,” I said. We stood up and headed to the exit, but we were not the only ones. Almost half of the people in the compound stood up and walked out as well, even though the corpse was not buried yet, but still in the compound. But we did not care anymore, as the first person had left already. Salumu and I were among the fourth and fifth rows of people to get out. At that point, it all made sense to me.
I came to understand that some tribes deeply respect their old traditions. At first, I thought those rumors I had heard were just street stories, but I witnessed everything with my own two eyes. Traditions are not something to play with. In that compound, I was so confused, wondering how someone, a man some of us did not even know, could just say something and have everyone respect it.
I did not know where that girl went, or what was going to happen to her. I hoped that, in accordance with the tribe’s customs, she would die. But that day, I did not even try to find out more about her, because I was too stunned, and all I thought about was leaving that place.
Then, since it was already around 10:30 p.m., Salumu suggested that we go to your place, because you were the only person we knew who lived close to Tchomba’s house. This explains why you saw us knocking at your door late that Friday night with a dazed and perplexed look on our faces.
We didn’t have time to explain it then, but I hope you now understand that it was because of the Luba burial.
Your friend,
Dieudo
