Steimatz

I picked at pieces of papaya and sipped a black coffee as I waited for some of the team to collect me this morning. We were attending the funeral service of Danny's son, Steimatz. Like many others, we were late because Monrovia traffic is hard to predict. I had dismissed the complaints about it, because nothing can ever be as bad as Jakarta or Manila. However the linear layout of Monrovia means that each morning vehicles funnel into the downtown area sandwiched between mangroves and waterways, and each evening they crawl out in the opposite direction. We battled along the funnel and out the other end, to locate the church where the urban sprawl of Monrovia bleeds into countryside.

I was wearing a navy blue blazer acquired at the Next Boxing Day sale and felt like a used car salesman. I wasn't sure I got the tone right, but I was told darker colours are better. Janet then confirmed I looked like the British ambassador. She doesn't know the Foreign & Commonwealth Office would never accept the scruffy likes of me, but this sounded good enough validation for a funeral.

It was an intense experience, but I feel privileged to have been awarded a glimpse. We were ushered onto seats on the platform as the MC and various others chaotically tried to keep proceedings ticking along. Liberian funerals are simultaneously formal occasions for shows of deep, wailing grief and informal in their arrangement with the MC disappearing, immediate family taking calls, the schedule in disarray. I started to swelter in the blazer. We were asked during the tributes section to say something on behalf of our organisation, which we did, and as some other women had done, Janet belted out something gospel and impromptu. She was unbelievably good.

The undertones of resentment between Danny and the mother of his son bubbled over during the family tributes. With two dozen of his weeping relatives gathered on the platform he conveyed his concerns about her parenting, how the boy's name had been changed as a child, and how he had been blocked from giving full support. Steimatz was troubled and Danny bitterly regrets the years during which they couldn't be close. He urged Steimatz's mother's family to allow him access to his two grandchildren.

As a mere observer and Liberian cultural ignoramus I do not have the right to comment, but it felt like this wasn't a subject for such a public, tragic occasion. My silent thoughts were echoed by a reverend behind me who chuntered that these matters are best discussed behind closed doors.

Steimatz's mother was grief-stricken and had been ululating throughout the ceremony, and these words angered her. She wanted to respond with the microphone but was never given the chance. Likely used to being voiceless in such situations, she could rightly feel wronged by this.

The casket was carried in and placed on a rickety wooden table that looked like it could never hold the weight. It lurched a little menacingly, until the final act of the funeral: the opening of the casket and the procession of the congregation to witness the body. After filing past we went outside and Mrs Weah offered our condolences to Steimatz's mother, who was collapsed on the ground being comforted by family.

In the car I asked Mrs Weah about her experience of the funeral. She said 'one year after my son graduated from college he died. I thought I would never smile'.

Then she saw some plantains for sale on the side of the road and wanted to get some as her husband is diabetic and can't eat much else. We dropped them off near her place and she yelled to some lads sitting near a fuel seller 'can you keep my plantains until I get back from work? Thank you plenty.'

Friday daytime traffic was heavy so we crawled back to the office. We passed an area known as Chicken Soup Factory, as stock cubes were made there. And I marvelled at the sheer number of companies with names such as 'In God We Trust Multi Purpose Credit Union' and 'Glory Be To God Cement Factory.'