Keci Nana

The old women gathered at the well are all stooped over. Dressed in washed out black, they also share what - quite unkindly - is sometimes called the “skunk look”. Because they are widows, they can’t die their hair the customary black for a year, so a white or grey stripe grows in the middle, where they part their hair. Their geese are at the well with them, arguing. From a distance the black and white of it all is picturesque … white geese, white hair stripe, black outfits, on a backdrop of dusty road, and one lone, stone well. Close up the reality of poverty surfaces. Most have few teeth; their shoes are clearly cast offs of their late husbands; their physical stance looks like osteoporosis. Bent over, they look heavy laden.

They are also clearly hardworking. They likely always have been. The menfolk of this culture tend to stumble to the bars of an early morning for a shot of local brew and stalwart coffee before attacking the backgammon board with gusto. The women raise the kids, tend the fields, find firewood, go to market, get water from the well, birth the babies, arrange the marriages, and bring meat to the priest on Mondays so that their dead can be accepted in the graveyard when that day comes around.

The men keep the floor mats in the mosques well worn so that both Muslim and Catholic religious spirits can be pacified. They also maintain family dignity, defending the honor each evening starting at four pm if there is a blood feud. The code of ethics is clearly worked out, allowing them to peacefully be neighbors the rest of the day, so that life as usual can go on.

Back at the well a marriage is being arranged. “Yes, she has wide hips, she’ll do fine carrying babies. And her teeth are strong. She’s a good, obedient girl, you’ll see. And a good cook, to boot! Send your son over to drink coffee with my brother, that will seal the deal.”

A child runs up, pulling on his grandmother’s hand. He’s clearly been in a bit of a scuff. She looks him over, taking his face in both her hands, worried, loving, focused. “Keci nana, keci nana, keci nana!” she says over and over, clicking her tongue.

Truly, looking at her bowed shoulders, you wonder that she should take on any new burdens, lest they break, but that’s her duty, by tradition, and the women around her nod their affirmation. Nana takes all the “keci” - all the bad, the curses, the evil, the woundedness - on herself. She shoulders his burdens that he may have a good life, a free life, a life - she hopes - without curses. Soon the child runs off, leaving the stooping grandmothers looking - from a distance - perhaps more like magpies or crows than skunks, dear souls.

Yesterday Derye was remembering her childhood. Suddenly she recalled a time when she was twelve. Her eight year old brother fell sick and she did what any good female does; she told her god that she would take all her brother’s curses on herself if he would only get better. Having a male heir is crucial in her society. She never thought twice; it was the natural response of love.

But as the team prayed with her into her memory, she realized that she had shouldered a burden that only Christ can carry. So she took the “keci” she had taken on herself and put it at the foot of the cross. As she did so, her prayer partner saw the heavy load lift off her, looking strangely like a crow. Black and gloomy, it was forced to leave. Derye straightened with a new Light in her eyes. As she prayed for her brother in this new way - asking God to care for him in the here and now - she saw a vision of her brother - now forty years later - in the Throne Room of heaven … with her. No more Keci Derye! She left the building laughing.

Maybe she’ll head to the well and tell the Nanas.