Beyond solidarity and mutual aid: Tension and conflict in burial groups in rural Uganda

Emergence of burial societies across time and space

Whereas some studies suggest the existence of burial societies can be traced back to as early as 1919 in Zimbabwe (Dafuleya, 2012; Hall, 1987), and 1938 in Botswana (Grant, 1987), the literature generally alludes to their popularity as a post-1950s phenomenon in Africa (Brown, 1982; Hall, 1987; Jones, 2007, 2009; Little, 1953; Ngwenya, 2002). Regarding burial societies as a post-1950s phenomenon suggests that their formation was driven by developments shaped by social, economic and political changes. These include challenges of market economy in West Africa (Little, 1953), demand for funeral insurance for migrant workers and a form of ecumenical movement in South Africa (Oosthuizen, 1990), and political processes in Ethiopia and Tanzania in the 1960s (Dercon et al., 2006). As a result, burial societies have been categorised as work-based or professional associations; religious, ethnic and tribal oriented; community based; gender based; or migration based (Ngwenya, 2003; Ranger, 2004).

In Uganda, particularly central Uganda where this study was conducted, the perceived waning role of the extended family system and the impact of HIV and AIDS have affected care responsibilities in households (Nobelius et al., 2012) and exerted pressure on the informal structures of social support (De Coninck and Drani, 2009). As death became an ‘everyday’ phenomenon due to HIV and AIDS, political upheavals and human vulnerability, ‘a tradition of “munno mukabi,” a form of self-help’ in which people informally helped each other arrange funerals was adapted into community-based burial groups (Lewis, 2001: 51). Burial groups therefore emerged as a form of ‘community self-help structures, a form of social capital, [and] as an adaptive response to social welfare needs’ (Lewis, 2001: 51). Consequently, as an adaptive response, burial groups in central Uganda have taken on the generic name munno mukabi, ‘a friend in need’, to signify forms of sociality and reciprocity. Similar approaches are documented among the Banyankore of Western Uganda (Twesigye et al., 2019) and Eastern Uganda (Jones, 2007).

Burial groups have been studied as quintessential forms of social solidarity and mutual aid (Kasente et al., 2002) that provide social relief and support in times of distress (Ngwenya, 2003: 90–91). Several studies also describe burial societies in Africa variously as a form of social change and organisation (Little, 1953) or a form of insurance (Dercon et al., 2006; Mariam, 2003; Shale, 2014). Others describe them as a form of social protection (Dafuleya, 2012, 2018), a form of financial security and keeping social ties (Hall, 1987), and a form of community resilience (Twesigye et al., 2019). While studies have alluded to the existence of conflicts in funeral practices in several African countries (Bähre, 2007; De Witte, 2003; Evans-Pritchard, 1949; Geschiere, 2005; Ngwenya, 2003), descriptions of burial groups in several parts of Africa have remained mute on the attendant conflicts, only projecting conflicts and tensions as having been part of funeral practices pre-burial societies.

Central to discussions on burial groups is the notion of solidarity among the members. Solidarity is an awareness of a common humanity and a recognition of an interdependent world (Sachikonye, 2004). Shipton (2007) claims that humans have inherent obligations towards one another, encapsulated into ‘entrustment’. Entrustment is ‘obligations but not necessarily obligations to repay like with like’ but as a framework for understanding social interconnectedness (Shipton, 2007: 11). These obligations shape solidarity relations and constitute debts that can be settled through reciprocal exchanges, such as provision of labour at a funeral. The concept of indebtedness depicts some form of symbolic power between the ‘creditors’ and ‘debtors’ to represent exchanges involving individuals in the community (Shipton, 2007).

In reference to burial groups, solidarity means shared responsibility, which implies that when people join burial groups, they are entrusting each other with that responsibility. Given the interconnected nature of African society, this shared responsibility often extends to a member’s social connections or networks of family and friendships to such an extent that in some communities, decisions to join burial groups involve a commitment to one’s social connections to the group (Ngwenya, 2003: 96). This also means that understanding the impact of burial groups goes beyond mutual aid and support for and within groups to relations across the entire community. It is the impact of these relations beyond obligations enacted within the group that generates conflicts and tensions in funeral practices.

The nature of burial groups in Luwero

Whereas all groups were known by the generic name, munno mukabi, the emphasis on solidary relations during death is depicted in their ‘relational’ names such as Kigudde w’ani? (Where has trouble occurred?), Abataka abaagalana (residents that love each other), Ssekiliba kya ttaka mpaawo atalikyambala (every person dies and ends up in the soil), and Tuyambe muvubuka mmunaffe (let us help our fellow youth). The community members noted that the selection of the names for burial groups is meant to depict what the group stands for.

Whereas some burial groups, such as Abataka abaagalana and Ssekiliba kya ttaka, had a clear leadership structure with a chairperson, vice-chair person, treasurer and secretary, most groups did not have a clearly recognised leadership structure. The people themselves without any external support started all burial groups. All burial groups hold meetings either on a monthly basis or at the time of the burial of a member. Most meetings are held to plan how to support the bereaved person and to collect members’ contributions towards burial expenses. Unlike burial societies described elsewhere that operate with formally written rules and constitutions and are registered with authorities (Dercon et al., 2008; Ngwenya, 2002), the Luwero burial groups were largely informal community-based arrangements. None of the burial groups was registered with any government office. To most of the members, the rules were largely an unwritten script, which they followed with little or no complaint.

Membership in the groups could be termed as fluid in nature, which also meant that it was difficult to know the exact number of burial groups that existed and their membership. However, data from a household survey we conducted in the same community revealed that over 46 percent of participants belonged to at least one group. Estimates from interviews and discussions indicated membership averaging between 20 and 80 members per group. Membership in a group often starts with close neighbours/homes and villages and shared interests or economic activity, for example a group of motorcycle riders. Later, the membership would be open to all adults irrespective of status. For example, Tuyambe muvubuka mmunaffe started in 2011 as a burial youth group for motorcycle riders initially attracting only motorcycle riders; by 2013, it had opened up membership to all. Membership tended to be localised, although some groups, such as a case of Tuyambe muvubuka mmunaffe, had members as far as Kampala city, which, as Smith (2004) points out, indicates an attempt to ‘keep ties with the place of origin’ (p. 569). Some groups, such as Ssekiliba kya ttaka, required members to pay a membership fee of USh5000 (US$1.78) and monthly subscription of USh500 (US$0.17), while others collected contributions only when a member died. Most groups emphasised active participation of their members, which in this context meant adhering to the group requirements.

Mobilisation of tangible and non-tangible contributions adhered to pre-determined procedures per group. Most groups provided support when the deceased was a member or close kin to a group member. Contributions were in the form of labour, cash and food items, with slight variations across groups. All groups had records of members’ contributions handwritten in a book. Whereas it was uncommon to announce publicly individual contributions, unless it was a ‘big’ contribution made by a politician or a prominent person seeking political capital, groups’ contributions were always publicly announced. Members of specific burial groups always noted whether their entire group’s contribution had been announced. Group contributions were usually food and non-food items. Some burial groups also had basic utensils or assets such as saucepans, plates, dishes, cups and tarpaulins as a source of identification, which they used during funerals for members.

Whereas group contributions depict the tangible benefits to bereaved members, discussions with participants downplayed their ‘tangibility’ and emphasised the meaning attached to the act of pooling resources. Pooling resources was more about a shared sense of sadness than direct benefits derived from contributions, supporting the idea that groups’ ‘economic and social or moral support often entwine’ (Jindra and Noret, 2013: 22). Its not one or the other. Group contributions signify a sense of shared responsibility:

For groups like muno mukabi, you can’t say there are tangible things that will benefit members. . . . What is important is that there is okukunakuwarilako [sharing sadness with the person]. So, people know that when they join the group they will not be expecting to get money or anything tangible but to feel that others are sharing with them. (Interview with a member of a burial group)

Members of burial groups posited that within a given burial group, members have obligations towards each other as support networks providing and receiving support and comfort. It is clear that groups are intended to cement lasting bonds. Being together with people in a group and seeing group members provide at a funeral not only comforts members, it is also a measure of identity and belonging (Durham, 2002; Smith, 2004; Teshome et al., 2012).

Beyond individual felt sense of shared sadness to community good: Why groups do not matter

One afternoon in July 2012, I met three women at one of their friend’s home engaged in a conversation about a burial they had failed to attend. Although their conversation started on general goings-on in the community, it drifted to the burial of a deceased person who at the time of his death had moved to a nearby village. As they discussed the reasons for not attending the burial, one of them said, ‘You know, I wanted to attend the burial not because the deceased was close to me but for the good of the village’. As soon as she said this, others appeared to agree with her that they should have attended the burial for the good of the community because it was a shame that many people from the village did not go to bury him, yet he had been an active person (mujumbize) in the community. Active participation defined a person who, in this context, always attended burials, contributed resources, attended night vigils and was always ‘available’ to help whenever others were in need irrespective of whether he or she belonged in a group. Such an individual is generally referred to as a good person, locally known as muntu mulamu. Their discussion raises questions about the distinction between participation for individual and/or community good. In this regard, the burial of Ouma’s mother is particularly illuminating.

On 12 June 2013, I joined a group of women knitting for a conversation, in what had become my daily routine. Our conversation meandered into the death of Ouma’s mother, which had been announced earlier in the day; the burial was scheduled for the following day. During our conversation, I asked whether the group of Kiggudde Wani was going to do something, and one of them said,

We will not do anything because Ouma has not been ‘active’ whenever we lose people in this village. Even when his mother died, he was not here; he was in Kasana [neighboring town]. It was Namande [Ouma’s wife] who was always there as if she was her real mother. Ouma is [was] not a good man. However, people will just take a few things tomorrow morning.

Ouma, though a resident in the study community, worked in the neighbouring town of Kasana, a few kilometres from the study community. As a first born and an heir to his late father, taking care of his mother was his responsibility. In Buganda, an heir is considered the head of the household; s/he makes all-important decisions on matters concerning the welfare of the home. Because of his work, Ouma rarely came to the community and hardly participated in community burials. Ouma’s two young brothers lived in the community and were considered active members. Ouma was not a member of any burial group, but his wife, Namande, was a member of one of the burial groups.

On the day of the burial, Ouma’s home was a beehive of activity, with women gathered peeling green plantain, sorting the rice, and preparing saucepans to cook food. Men, on the other hand, were digging the grave and fetching water and firewood. This appeared a contrast to earlier descriptions of Ouma as a non-cooperative member. Later, during conversations with John and Mukesi, it became clear why people like Ouma would still get the support, although he was not necessarily active in the community:

From this conversation, we note two things indicative of what was going on: first, ‘if you don’t come then you are labelled . . . ’, which links funeral participation to social pressure – while this pressure can be felt among group members, it appears to be felt even more among people who are not in groups; second, the level of interconnectedness – while people pointed to the lack of participation of Ouma, there was significant support from the friends of Namande and Ouma’s brothers, which depicts the role of social network (Musinguzi, 2016).

When it was time for the burial, as people gathered in front of Ouma’s house, the chairperson of Kigudde w’ani burial group announced to members to give cash condolences. With a container and a small book, he immediately started collecting and writing each member’s contributions, which were later publicly announced. One of the two men who were seated behind me murmured to his friend, ‘People have come to bury but Ouma never attends people’s burials’. His friend responded, ‘He is lucky because the people here are many, but you know you can’t refuse to help someone like that. He is a resident and has people like Namande who are good’. After the sermon, announcements were made of groups that contributed food, labour for cooking, cooking utensils and cash. Food items, cooking and cash contributions were made by Ssekiliba kya ttaka and Kigudde w’ani, burial groups where Namande belonged.

In the vignettes presented in this article, it is clear that community good and belonging is not about group membership. It is more about the individual participation than it is about group membership. In fact, for some members, groups are a source of conflict and have done little to promote a sense of solidarity.

Do conflicts and tensions signal increased or diminished solidarity obligations?

The older generation always talked about the past as the ‘good old’ days when the community did not rely on groups to support each other. Although no one would specify a particular time frame for the ‘good old days’, in an interview with Betty, a 69-year-old female, she recollected how individuals helped each other without any form of group arrangement. Betty, also a member of a burial group, noted that things have changed:

In the past, whenever a person died, all community members were concerned; they would get food from their gardens, firewood and carry to the bereaved family. We all used to provide labour: cook food, dig up the grave, and serve food to everyone. All these are dying out because people now grow and sell food. Today, we have other tribes who have come in but do not know our cultural practices as Baganda; they do not care.

In her candid assessment, Betty portrayed the role of burial groups as (re)shaping solidarity. Although she believed that groups enable community members to cope with diminishing solidarity, the change was a point of concern for her.

Joan, who at the time of the study did not belong to any burial group, equally expressed concerns about limited support for non-group members. In one of the interviews, she mentioned how the burial groups have affected the ‘good old’ days (enkola ey’edda), which embraced togetherness as the best way of sustaining solidary relations during death:

If one gets a problem, they say that ‘after all, that person is in a group, let his/her group members help’. The groups came in but they spoiled and changed the old ways of doing things. They really spoiled it because if you are not a member of the group, they do not help you [ . . . ]. For instance, if I lose a relative or die, you may come and fail to have a cup of porridge because I am not in a burial group. Those who belong to groups may come and only say, ‘It’s a pity and immediately leave’.

Similar sentiments were echoed during one of the FGDs with men.

Yet, as noted during Betty’s discussion, some community members hold the view that it is for such perceived diminishing communal solidarity that burial groups have been formed to fill the gap:

For us, before we formed this group, a fellow community member lost a relative, but there was nobody food to cook. We decided to form a group so that if I encounter such circumstances, I would be helped. It would be my obligation to extend the same support if my colleagues also happen to be in the similar circumstances. (Interview with a member of a burial group)

While some community members hold the view that burial groups have diminished obligations regarding support, others believe that groups have come to fill the gap. However, the actual impact remains ambiguous. In some cases, it would appear as though group members support each other and exclude non-group members. However, social pressure for public display of solidarity and the level of community interconnectedness means that total exclusion is difficult.

Although it was noted that the support by group members to non-members does not go beyond the perfunctory phrase ‘it’s a pity’, public display of solidarity with the bereaved remained culturally important as a form of funeral insurance because ‘if you don’t [render help], people will take note’.

On 26 May 2013, news of James’ death circulated in the community. James, in his early 30s, was born and raised in the community. By the time of his death, he was living about 60 km away in Kampala city where he had businesses. Immediately when it was confirmed that his burial would be on 27 May, at his ancestral home, which was located about 50 km from the community, everybody expressed desire to attend his burial. On the day of the burial, community members contributed UShs4000 (US$1.38) each towards hiring a truck to transport the mourners and had their names written in an exercise book by the vice-chairperson of the village. Buleli, in her 50s, called me to where they were seated with a group of other women, and said:

You know, I have been sick, but I have to go and burry James. If it was not that people would wonder why I have not gone to bury him I would not have gone.

Like several other people who ordinarily would not have gone for burial, Buleli had to be there because she was concerned about what people would think of her action. It was important that the public should see her. When the truck finally arrived, everybody who had paid boarded. About 60 people travelled. We arrived late at the burial site and burial had already taken place. Each one of us who travelled made sure we personally greeted the bereaved family members, which I later learnt was for ‘recognition’ and proof that we attended. As we were eating, one of the people with whom we travelled said to me, ‘These are the things you always ask us about Laban . . . see for yourself. People have traveled in big numbers to burry James’. On the way back, people kept talking about those who had not gone to the burial, mentioning name by name. I did not hear anyone talk about any burial group.