Mingling with the dead

 Mingling with the dead

By Kondwani Nyondo 

It is my third morning since I joined the mortuary, but the smell no longer bothers me.

There is silence — the kind that hums through the cold air. 

Mr. Banda, the senior attendant, calls it “the sound of peace.”

Before I joined, I heard many stories about mortuary attendants. One of them claimed that when a dead person suddenly rose, attendants finished them off with a hammer.

I ask Banda if, in his thirty years of service, he has ever seen that happen.

He chuckles, wiping his hands with a towel.

“No. That has never happened,” he says. Then, after a pause, adds, “But there was one incident — a coffin swelling on its own after we had put in the body. That one scared me a little.”

An hour later, the ground phone rings. Banda picks it up.

It’s a call from Room 12 in the doctors’ block.

“Get to 4A on the ground floor. There’s your new arrival," says the voice.

We move quickly, gloves and stretcher in hand.

When we reach the ward, a man in his sixties lies still on the bed, already wrapped in white cloth.

“Sibweni, Dada wane, osikala, Mfumu wane iwe,” wails a voice from the corridor — the cries of relatives refusing to let go.

Banda kneels beside the body for a moment, checks the tag, and nods before we lift him onto the stretcher.

“This is the seventh arrival today,” he tells me as we walk. 

“Most are men with cancer. Lately, even children have become regulars — it’s the cold season. Parents neglect small signs until it’s too late.”

As we head to the mortuary, Banda glances at me and barks,“Use both hands.The dead deserve balance.”

Inside, he begins to wash the body — slow, steady, and unafraid.

 The grey in his hair catches the light, a mark of years spent learning to walk comfortably among the dead.

He guides me to do the same, our gloved hands working in rhythm with the hum of the freezers.

“They don’t speak,” he says, “but they teach — patience, respect, stillness.”

The first body I am instructed to wash alone is that of a 13-year-old girl. My neck stiffens as I look at her.

She is too young for death, I think. What has killed her?

The next day, we wash her again — to honour what remains.

We use warm water, soft soap, and scented powder. 

Banda says it helps send them off gently, “like putting calm over what used to be pain.”

When we are done, he opens a small drawer filled with combs, shaving blades, and old lipsticks.

“Some families want their loved ones to look like themselves one last time,” he explains.

 “They bring lipstick or perfume. Very important. It helps them say goodbye.”

He applies lipstick carefully on the still face of the girl.

When he finishes, he whispers, “There. She’s ready to meet those who wait for her.”

As we close the drawer and switch off the lights, something deep settles inside me — the understanding that even in death, kindness still has a place.