Gleaned from:
Pambazuka News 285
Thursday, January 11
To view online, go to http://www.pambazuka.org

LIFE IN A THIRD WORLD MORTUARY

by Stanley Makuwe


Stanley Makuwe looks at what it means not to have access to basic
services from a point of view of dead people. Through a dialogue
among corpses in a mortuary, Makuwe criticizes a government system
that disregards the poor, while simultaneously, exposes a rotten
system that rewards unscrupulous politicians whose only concern is to
fly around the world and shop at the most expensive boutiques.


“What brings you here?� an old voice asks from the top shelf. A
maggot crawls on the old body’s face.

“We are all dead. That’s what brings all of us here,� bellows a young
voice.

“Is that how you speak to your elders? Young men of today have no
respect. That’s why you die young. Long ago no-one of your age would
be seen in places like this. We were healthy and strong like oxen
pulling a yoke. Look now, how many of your age do you see around
here? You die before you grow pubic hair, while you still have breast
milk on your noses.�

Another voice groans and says, “Thank you for starting the
conversation. Anyway what brings you here old man?�

The old body clears its throat before saying, “I have no family. I
divorced my wife and she went away with my son. My parents said, ‘you
are now a grown up bullock, you have to graze for yourself,’ then I left
their home to look for a job here in the city. You have to know someone
to get a job in this country.

For me I knew no-one. I was left homeless and jobless. I slept under
bridges for many years. The cold weather kicked me to death. Someone
found me dead and informed the police who bundled my decomposing
corpse into a metal coffin and brought it in here.

“Government people appeared on the front pages of newspapers, on
radios and television talking about the things they said they were
doing for the people – donations of food and clothes to the needy,
building houses for the homeless, providing free medical treatment to
the underprivileged. But they had no money to look after a useless old
horse.�

The stench in the mortuary almost chocks the dead bodies to a second
death.

“You would put them out of budget. Fuel is now too expensive. Better
one old man dies than having ten BMWs grounded,� a young body with says.

“No-one has turned up to claim my body,� the old voice continues, “we
are becoming overcrowded in here. Do you think the president knows we
are here? He is a great man, that president of ours. He wouldn’t let us
suffer. Lucky are those who died when milk and honey were still flowing
in the rivers of this country. I feel sorry for those who will die in
ten years’ time. Sometimes I feel you are lucky, young men. You died at
the right time, when there was still space in this mortuary.�

To the body on the floor, “what killed you?�

“Nurses and doctors went on strike for pay rise. The government said
they had no money because they wanted to buy bulletproof vests,
handcuffs, bulletproof cars, tear gas and batons, and to train more
police dogs. Apart from that, the president was abroad attending to
very important matters so they had to wait for his return so he could
decide how much increment the medical staff would get, if they were
going to get any. I heard he wanted to return but his wife said she
wanted to do her shopping so he had to wait and help her carry her
shopping bags. You see, he is a busy man.�

“They held fruitless talks while we took turns to die. It started in
the first cubicle. I was in the fifth cubicle. I thought by the time
death got to me the medical team would have returned to work but I
was wrong. I held on for a while but in the end gave up. I couldn’t
wait any longer. I woke up dead one morning.�

“We are piling up. I don’t know if my family will find me in this
place. Who said hell is somewhere up there?�

The doors slide open. Deafening silence fills the whole mortuary. The
sound of a poorly oiled cart breaks the silence, followed by heavy
foot-steps and a thud, signaling the arrival of another dead body. The
doors slam shut and the sound of the broken wheels slowly fades
away.

“I can see a child. Why are you here little one?� enquires the old body.

“I fell sick. My mother took me to clinic. Nurse said I was too sick
and I had to be transferred to the district hospital. There was no
ambulance. Father put me in our scotch-cart.� The door opens again.
More bodies are rolled on the pile. Other bodies shout words of
welcome before the child continues.

“When we got to the district hospital doctor said I must go to the
provincial hospital. There was no fuel for the ambulance. Mother took me
there by bus. People were staring at me and mother. The whole bus was
whispering about my sickness. At the provincial hospital they said I
must go to the central hospital. We took another bus. When we arrived
there was a long queue of very sick people waiting for their hospital
cards to be stamped. Mother asked for permission to jump the queue. ‘You
must have brought your child early. We are all sick here,’ a man shouted
at her in a harsh voice.

“Our card was stamped but not before mother paid all the money she
had been left with. We waited for doctor. When he came he examined me
and said I needed an x-ray for my chest. We had to wait for the next day
for the x-ray department to open. When it opened we were told that the
x-ray machine was not working. We went back to see doctor.
There was yet another long queue. At last we saw doctor. He wrote
some medication. We went to the pharmacy and we were told the
medication prescribed by doctor had been out of stock for many
moons,� the child’s voice pauses as a fly buzzes around her body.

“Mother broke down and cried, ‘what do you want me to do with my
baby. Help my baby please. She is dying. Help her please.’ ‘What do
you want us to do? It’s 4 o’clock, we are closing now,’ the woman at
the pharmacy said to my mother before she shut the pharmacy doors.
She had no mercy in her voice. And I am here today.�

A rat runs across the mortuary. Female bodies scream but other bodies
pay no attention. Women.

“Your story, child, sounds like mine. I lost cattle, goats and
chicken trying to be treated. I went to witch-doctors and spiritual
healers. One of the witch-doctors told me my brother’s wife had
bewitched me. He took frogs and lizards out of my chest and bathed me in
chicken blood. My brother divorced his wife.

One of the spiritual healers said my uncle had bewitched me because
he was jealous of my successful life. He gave me cooking oil to add
to my bathing water. It didn’t help. Finally, I came to this
hospital. The doctors gave me water through the veins. I was semi-
conscious when I heard one of them saying to the other, ‘these are
AIDS symptoms.’ Days later I was dead.

“I had money. Real money. Not a few dollars in the bank but millions
that could buy me anything in the world. I spent it with women of all
sizes and colours.�

“I died when I was drunk,� a faint voice whispers. His eyes are wide
open, staring at the derelict roof of the mortuary. “I was beaten to
death by young men dressed in green. They said I was a supporter of
the opposition coming from a party meeting.�

A woman’s voice interrupts, “I was a strong member of the Women’s
League. One of those women who wrap around cloaks with the
president’s face printed on them.�

The voice starts singing a song of revolution.

Handei Handeiwo
Handei tinoitora
Nyika ndeyeduwo
Handei tinoitora
Ivhu ndereduwo
Handei tinoritora

(Let us go and take the country. It is ours. Let us go and take the
land. It is ours.)

It is a hive of activity as mortuary attendants take turns to bring
in more bodies, fresh bodies, some with blood dripping down their
faces to the cold floor. The mortuary attendants pinch their noses as
they walk into the mortuary. The opening of the door brings in some
fresh air making the bodies feel refreshed.

“You deserve to be at the heroes’ acre, woman,� an invisible body
shouts from the far end of the mortuary.

“No, I do. I was a war veteran. A liberator of my people,� an angry
male voice says.

“We both do,� the woman’s voice reasons, “we must be buried at the
Heroes’ acre. I don’t think our president knows we are here. The
president wouldn’t allow this to happen. Someone hasn’t informed him.
Do you think the minister of information informed him?�

“How can you expect him to inform you about a place he has never been
before?�

“Before I died I heard from someone that he is a busy man. He has a
demanding job that keeps a minister busy.�

“What kind of a job is that?�

“It’s one of the greatest jobs in this part of the world. It’s about
talking the truth on radios, televisions and in newspapers. You have
to be a professor to hold such a high post.�

“Someone told me the minister of information has another job in the
government as a spin doctor. You see, he is a minister and also a
doctor. He is too busy to inform the president about dead people
rotting somewhere in a mortuary.�

“Spin doctor!� exclaims a surprised voice, “what kind of a doctor is
that?�

“You don’t know?� asks another surprised voice, “a spin doctor is the
president’s personal doctor. He treats him of the stresses caused by
being a president.�

“Doctors of today,� says the old voice, “let people die in hospitals
while they work in government as ministers of information. They have
no ethics anymore. Look at that girl’s nose. It’s rotting. If things
go on like this, we will march on the streets. We can mobilize all
other bodies in other mortuaries. We have to speak with one voice.
Our ancestors said one finger cannot kill lice. Just imagine dead
bodies marching on the streets demanding fair treatment in the
mortuaries.�

A huge applause.

“You have spoken, old man,� the young voice says, “your mouth has
spoken. You are wise, I must admit. We must not only protest for fair
treatment in mortuaries. We must also protest for fair treatment of our
living families.

They have been suffering for too long. The leader of this country is
taking them nowhere. If it were not for his mismanagement of the
country we would still be alive. Those with no wisdom believe he is a
great leader but the truth is this country has been brought down to its
knees by this man. I want him out of office. How, I don’t care.
As long as we kick him out. The living ones have failed to push him
out. It’s now our turn, the dead, to do it.�

“I support you, my friend,� says another young voice, “if we start
our own opposition party we can easily win elections just like that.
People want change. They don’t care who brings the change, as long as
the president goes. They are prepared to vote for anyone or anything,
even if it means voting for a donkey.�

“You must be joking,� says the female voice, “who would vote for a
dead people’s party?�

“Other dead bodies will vote. In this country dead people are more
than the living ones. If all the dead bodies vote we can win. Imagine
this country being run by dead bodies!�

“You must be dreaming in your everlasting sleep. The country would be
dead too.�

“It’s dead already, killed by a living person.�

Huge applause and laughter.

Five more bodies are thrown in. The old body asks loudly, “What
brings you here young people?�

“Don’t you know there is a civil war going on out there? Can’t you
hear the sound of AKs and landmines?� says a bleeding body, its voice
full of fury.

“Are you saying you have just died? What for? For your masters? You
die while they are busy holding endless meetings in five-star hotels.�

The old body starts to weep, bringing grief to the whole mortuary. As
the bodies wipe their tears from their lifeless cheeks, a thin and
malnourished body is brought in. It wastes no time in making its
voice heard.

“My, my, my, I wish you knew what’s happening out there. There is a
drought with a mouth full of long teeth; it is biting and killing the
old and the young. Our leaders said the granaries are now empty. They
are surviving by shopping overseas. We, the poor, can’t afford to shop
overseas. Only two days ago, before I died I heard that our very own
president took his family to a far country for shopping. Him and his
wife and two children took a two hundred sitter jet to fly to the far
country to shop. They diverted the route of the plane so that they could
use it to carry their groceries. Those who saw it
returning said it was full of groceries, even on the roof, like a bus
going to the village.

“We, the poor, wait everyday for death to knock on our doors. It
knocked on mine. I said to it, ‘come in,’ because I had no choice. I had
nowhere else to send it because it had claimed the lives of my
loved ones. My children died. We buried them last week. I died this
morning. Only the strong survive out there. If the civil war misses
you, drought makes sure it does not, or it leaves you devastated.�

“I wish I was a government official,� a tearful voice speaks, “I
heard they have a nice mortuary. I heard it’s a mansion of a
mortuary. A palace. The bodies bath and dress in suits. They get the
most expensive chemicals, oxygen, perfumes and three main meals and
snacks in between.�

To another decomposing body, “Hey, you have been quiet. Why are you
not talking? Are you happy with your dead life?�

“I listen and take information.�

“Are you a newspaper reporter?�

“No, I am a member of the government’s secret agent. The way you are
talking compromises the security of the country. I am not warning you
again!�

Fear grips the whole mortuary and there is dead silence.

• Stanley Makuwe is a Zimbabwean writers based in Auckland, New
Zealand. His short story collection, Under This Tree & Other Stories,
was published last year by Polygraphia. He is also last year’s runner up
for the BBC World Service Short Story Award.

• Please send comments to editor@pambazuka.org
or comment online at http://www.pambazuka.org
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What a good story.