Down in the quiet lakeside town of Rabuor, in Kenya’s Kisumu region, the air often carries the heavy, rhythmic sound of dirges. It’s here that Victor Ouma has found a way to survive, and honestly, it’s not what you’d expect to find on a job board. He’s a professional mourner. When the economy gets tight and the job market offers nothing, people get creative—and Ouma decided that offering emotional support for those who have no family left is a way to stay busy, and more importantly, stay out of trouble. It’s a strange shift in life, isn’t it? Choosing to cry for strangers.
But don’t get it twisted, it’s not just about the weeping. Francis Oyoo, who works alongside him, explained to Misryoum that their business model includes a bit of everything—setting up tents, managing the catering, and ensuring the whole event runs smoothly. They start the moment the deceased is pulled from the mortuary, wailing and singing until the earth is finally pushed over the coffin. It’s a full-time gig, basically.
There’s this cultural pressure, especially within the Luo community, to make sure a funeral looks well-attended. It’s a status thing, but it’s also deeper than that. Georgina Achieng, who hired a group for her uncle, put it pretty bluntly: if you don’t give someone a proper send-off, you’re worried their spirit might just hang around and make life difficult for the rest of the living. It sounds superstitious, but it really boils down to showing respect. If the family is small—or non-existent—those hired hands provide that necessary weight of presence.
“We don’t have to be related,” Willis Omondi, a group manager, mentioned to Misryoum. You just have to tap into that human feeling, like, what if this was your own father or brother? Then the tears start flowing, and suddenly, it doesn’t matter that you’ve never met the person in the casket. It’s a psychological switch.
Is it weird? Maybe a little. But as urbanization pulls families apart and shrinks our immediate circles, these gaps have to be filled by someone. Owuor Olunga, an anthropology professor at the University of Nairobi, notes that this reflects a changing Kenya. Traditional roles are dissolving, and when there aren’t enough blood relatives around to fill the chairs, you hire a crowd to show the world—and maybe the deceased—that they mattered.
It’s a peculiar trade, trading grief for stability. Sometimes I wonder if it ever gets hard to just turn those emotions off once the tent comes down and the catering plates are cleared away, but I suppose that’s just the job. People need to feel like they were seen, even at the very end.