Cristina and I flew down for the service in Oloitokitok last Saturday. Here are a couple of images to share.
The service was fine, as such things go. We arrived too late to hear the eulogy of Raymond's grad school friend, Scott Allen, but got the tail end of Mr. Githinji's thoughtful tribute.

Almost on sitting down, I was handed the mike by the gentleman waving his hand and said some few words about good and evil and reminded everyone that whatever your persuasion, the Golden Rule rules OK (religion is sooo easy!).
And then the tedious pastors took over. I counted at least three, maybe four if you include the OK guy who led us in a couple of old favourites in Kiswahili. Two of the men of the (frayed) cloth blatantly advertised their respective parishes The third -- obviously the venerable main attraction -- took us through three, no four readings plus interpretations of turgid verses of the Good Book: Paul to the Corinthians, Revelations, you name it. Pompous, self-serving, supercilious, came to mind. Poor Katito was going spare watching the rainclouds gather and listening to the blather about grieving being some kind of sin. The rain started and dampened the pastors to a welcomed silence. Katito retreated into mum's house and eight pallbearers took the coffin away to the burial site in the family plot before the hole filled up with water. All the nephews, Ntawuasa included, bore the burden.
Katito said she couldn't take it, so we retreated into the house and were engulfed by a warm human presence of many wonderful mamas and babies and elders sitting and nodding and murmurring around the room. There, my friends, if anywhere, is where God was at work that day.
Purity was there, bless her. Drove down and back for the occasion, as did KWS Southern Division Director, Wilson Korir. All the friends and family, of course, and the kids, Nyanka and Shaka, bigeyed and solemn. We just hugged them and said all the elephant people were always there for them if they need us.

That's it. What more to say. Too much already.