Tororo, Uganda — The traditional burial rite of the Jopadhola is becoming increasingly rare as villagers opt for DJs spinning modern tunes. Dust and cobwebs have gathered around Lawrence Ogambo’s fumbo, the long hollow drum once central to the Jopadhola funeral ceremony. It has been more than 50 years since the 90‑year‑old Ogambo last played it at a funeral. The Jopadhola live predominantly in Tororo, a district of about 500,000 people (2014 census) located 200 kilometres east of Kampala, best known for the massive Tororo Rock surrounded by flat, green land.
When a Jopadhola person dies, tradition mandates that the body be washed with banana juice and dressed in ceremonial clothes. At 8 p.m., a bonfire is lit at the deceased’s house and the ajore dance begins. Men play the fumbo and dance with spears, “as if to stab death itself for taking their loved one,” says Ogambo. Women dance while wailing, wearing banana leaves around their waists that are later thrown into the grave. The ceremony ends the following afternoon with the burial.
Today, the rite is fading. Tororo residents increasingly hire DJs who play recorded songs on huge sound systems villagers call “the radio.” The music is not traditional; it ranges from U.S. rap to Nigerian pop. “I listen to what is being played, and I watch how people struggle to mourn because the radio doesn’t evoke grief. People dance their own kind of dance, and it seems more like a leisure funeral!” Ogambo says, laughing as he claps his hands. In the backyard of his grandson’s house, where he now lives, the veteran musician displays his old fumbo, which he learned to play at age 16. Despite his amusement, he fears the tradition could disappear when the last musicians like him die.
The mourners are supposed to learn about the deceased through the songs, explains Alex Okello, 21, one of the few young funeral musicians. He learned to play the fumbo from his father, who learned it from his father, and so on. Relatives of the deceased provide the musicians with information that is woven into the songs. “The funeral musicians are a vehicle of Jopadhola oral history,” Okello says. “When you refuse to be a funeral musician, the Jogi [gods] will follow you until you accept. You will start making saucepans into fumbo, and then you will realize that you can’t run away from it.” Okello intends to teach his children to play the fumbo, but acknowledges that young people increasingly prefer the radio—even though hiring a traditional musician costs 40,000 to 70,000 Ugandan shillings ($10.73‑$18.77), while a sound system costs 350,000 to 400,000 shillings ($93.90‑$107.30).
Isaac Ochieng, 22, known as DJ Isak Pro, says his job requires little effort: he plays anything popular, though he also records live fumbo music. His employer, Silk Events Sound Systems Tororo, handles about 50 funeral events a year. The spread of Christianity in Uganda has likely contributed to the ajore’s decline. Two decades ago, Evaline Awori invited funeral musicians to mourn her husband; today she says she danced at his funeral “as if possessed.” “We don’t need ajore dance anymore. Death is part of life. As a Christian, I realized that kind of grieving is not the right way,” she explains.
Wandera Salmon Owino, minister of tourism and antiquities at the Tieng Adhola Cultural Institute—a Tororo nonprofit dedicated to preserving Jopadhola traditions—notes that many families burn musical instruments and antiquities during prayers to ward off demons. “Some people associate the fumbo with witchcraft,” he says. “Until the fumbo is played in churches, people’s thoughts will never change.” The institute is urging the Tororo district government to ban electronic sound systems at funerals, and a recent wave of crime during services may persuade residents to support such a move. Owino adds that the radio makes funerals feel like parties, attracting people who are not there to mourn. “The modern music is empty. We don’t know where it is made. It’s not part of our heritage, not part of our history. They are picked because they appeal in a particular way,” says Patrick Ndira, a local NGO worker. His co‑worker Atuki Turner observes that traditional mourning is highly interactive: “You see the sweat of the musician, his fingers playing the instruments. The musician moves through the mourners as he sings.”
Ogambo has trained a few relatives to play the fumbo, but tradition forbids them from performing at funerals while he is still alive. He admits he is too weak to stand and play the fumbo at funerals, but he sometimes plays the tongoli, which can be played seated, at the okelo—a similar ritual reserved for warriors and prominent elders. “I wasn’t being invited to play at the ajore anymore, and I saw an opportunity playing at the okelo, so I took it up,” he says. Unlike the ajore, the okelo allows fathers, uncles and grandfathers to play together, and the radio is rarely hired for it. “It’s too special,” Ogambo notes. When he dies, his funeral will be celebrated with an okelo, and he plans to keep his fumbo until then. “I can’t throw my fumbo away. I will play it until I am no more,” he declares.
Beatrice Lamwaka is a Global Press Journal reporter based in Kampala, Uganda. Translation note: Regina Asinde Kasede interpreted some interviews from Dhopadhola.
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