Vigil

Night has fallen. We’ve eaten our rice and said our nightly prayer. The students are already in bed, resting for tomorrow’s day of studies.

At the sound of a knock, we slide open the deadbolt. “Vorona ve?” the visitor asks. Are you ready?

“Andao”, let’s go, I reply.

The night is pleasantly warm compared to the mid-day sun. Our route is convoluted as we pick up friends and weave through the neighborhood, then across town. We pass landmarks I know well in the daytime, but our nighttime rondevou makes everything new. The cracked pavement, askew cobblestones, and sandy paths turn the journey into an obstacle course. People we pass make their last purchases in the market as the sellers slowly gather their produce and merchandise.

As we arrive at the gate, I pull my lambohana out of my bag and wrap it clumsily around my waist as my friends coo, “Mahay ny fomba ianao”, you know the Malagasy custom.

The compound is huge and people fill every corner. Incandescent light bulbs inside the three houses flood the yard outside and mingle with the firelight and charcoal stoves to create a warm glow. People sit. Woven mats cover the houses and much of the ground outside, but they can’t be seen for the crowds lounging on them. Every night this week, they have gathered to honor the deceased. But this is the last and biggest night. Tomorrow morning, they will travel to church together, then to the graveyard.

The rain starts to fall, we were lucky to pick a slightly less cramped bench just under the great big tent. People by the fires scoop rice out of giant pots onto oversized plates. On top of the mound, they serve the cow that was slaughtered according to custom and to feed the crowd. Each plate has five spoons. We lean into each other on the bench to scoop the rice and attempt to saw through some of the beef. A plastic pail is placed in front of us. The rainwater running into it from the tent roof serves to cool down our ranonapango (tea made from the rice burnt to the bottom of the pot) as we scoop it out with a small tin mug we pass around.

As the rain slows, we go behind the house to change into all white. We scrambled to exchange dresses to find one that would fit my big vazah shoulders.

Once we all match, we walk across the tangled cords in front of the giant tent where the crowd has started to sing hymns. I know all the tunes, but few words. We unwrap the mix of lambohanas and hair caps women donated to keep the microphones dry. Its time.

Fourty-some voices boldly sing into the night accompanied by recordings blasted through the speakers. The spare micro is passed around as song after song and solo after solo go by. The people listen, sometimes singing along , sometimes in their own hushed conversations, drinking fanta or rhum straight out of the bottles.

The micro lands in my hands. I take steps forward as the piano music starts playing. We only practiced this song last night, but I’ve heard it all my life. As “I heard there was a secret chord…” comes out of my mouth, I am surprised to hear my own voice ringing through the night. A few people stand up with their phones, I hope its because they appreciate the song and not to show their friends how bad the vazah is at singing. I try to pull out my deeply rooted anxieties about singing once and for all.

I’m filled with gratitude for the choir behind me singing the hallelujahs and the way they prepared me for this by yelling, “mafy!”, to me every rehearsal to encourage me to sing louder. After all, they remind me, every voice is beautiful when you’re singing to God. I’m thankful for the effort the Fanasina choir puts into achieving their goal to convince me to stay here forever instead of one year. They’re breaking down more barriers within me than they can see. I pour the warmth I feel into the song and open my senses to the world around me. I want to remember this night forever.

Time moves fast, yet stands completely still. Every ten songs, we take a water break. As the night deepens, the friends and family of the deceased grow quieter. One by one, they fall asleep scattered on mats throughout the crowd. As the next day arrives, the bros in third and fourth voice put their arms around each others shoulders. The girls next to me intertwine their fingers with mine. As our concert lulls people to sleep or keeps them awake through the night, we grow closer. Tonight, I feel at home. When I make it to bed just before dawn, I know I will sleep peacefully.