Chevy Runs in the Family

"Do you know what that is?"

His finger pointed to the same thing I was photographing when I looked up at him to say I didn't know. What looked like a metal rusted shell of some sort sat directly behind both graves of my grandfather and his first wife -- Mami, my grandmother. I didn't know what it was, or if it had significance but considering its size and location, I figured it wasn't just someone's litter. I remember it being there seven years ago when I last visited. I assumed it had been there since long before. 

I wasn't sure who it was asking me that question. I met dozens of both new and vaguely familiar faces everyday in the span of little time, so it was difficult for me to keep the faces, names and relations straight. Sometimes people would speak to me and I wasn't sure if they were family, friends, cousins, friends of friends or strangers. Sometimes people would speak to me and I wasn't sure what they were saying, either. Which often made me cautious...and soon I grew custom to hinging on a careful balance of trusting politeness and distant skepticism. If it was family, I didn't want skepticism to be insulting. If it was a stranger, I didn't want trust to be risky. 

There were two days out of the ten days I was in Cameroon where identifying friends from family, family from strangers, and strangers from friends wasn't so challenging. It was during the back-to-back funerary ceremonies in the village. It was because we were all literally color coded.

The sons and daughters of Mami, including my dad, wore the same red, yellow, and mostly blue print. The wives of Mami's sons--both direct and step sons--all wore a black, white and mostly magenta print. The grandchildren and great grandchildren of Mami, including myself, all wore a slightly shimmering pastel shade of pink. And the closest of family friends and more distant relatives wore another blue and mostly red print--the same fabric from which I had a dress tailored later on. 

If I remember correctly, the man who saw me photographing the rusted shell was wearing the same mostly blue print that my dad wore -- the cloth for the sons of Mami. I knew he wasn't my direct uncle. My dad has only 3 brothers. He was also much younger than my dad and my direct uncles. He may have been somewhere in between my age and my dad's age -- maybe in his thirties. He wasn't loomingly tall, fat, or broad like my uncles--or like most Cameroonians. He was leaner and had a narrower face. I thought he was attractive. Honestly I don't even know his name for sure. But I saw him several times throughout the trip. And both his clothing and presence meant he wasn't a stranger. I suspected he was my dad's half brother. From one of my grandfather's later wives. 

Mami's casket was being hoisted, then sunken into the ground behind us while we spoke quietly. We spoke while glancing both forward at the burial and behind us -- at the mysterious heap of rusted metal.

He pointed to the shell behind the graves and asked if I knew what it was. I told him I had no idea...with curiosity. Then his eyes and smile both grew slightly wider and with a bit more passion in his tone he asked in slow English, "do you know how your grandfather died?"

"Oui, un accident de voiture." 

Yes, a car accident. 

I did know that. He died sometime either before or very close to when I was born. I never met him. I've only seen one picture. And his skull--which sat inside the small tomb and on top of the small grave only a few feet behind us. 

"Yes," he nodded. A car accident. He pointed again to the rusty shell, "That is the remains of your grandfather's car." 

The car he died in. 

"He drove a big car. Like a bus," he added, "He drove a Chevy. You know Chevy?" he asked.

I couldn't help but smile,"Oui, je le connais. Je conduis un Chevvy, aussie."

Yes, I know Chevy -- I drive a Chevy, too.

A Chevy was my first car. And when I crashed my first car a couple months back, a Chevy was my second. That's the moment I knew Chevy will always be my next. 

My grandfather Temgoua