“Who saves for death?’: Where funeral costs break families, a village burial society offers another way

Image Description: An open casket lowered in the ground, revealing a man in a blue suit made out of Ugandan shillings.

Kamwenge, Uganda (Minority Africa) —On a sun-drenched February afternoon, mourners gathered beneath crisp white tents and makeshift tarpaulin shades for the final day of a three-day vigil. The occasion: the burial of  43-year-old Judith Bigambe, who had succumbed after a long battle with HIV/AIDS. She was the maternal aunt of Judith Kusemererwa Atwooki, a resident of Busingye village in Kamwenge District.

The send-off, held on February 23, 2025, was striking not only for its scale but for the air of surprise it stirred among those who had come to pay their respects.

From the first evening, it was clear this would not be an ordinary village funeral. Guests were seated with care; the mood, unusually light. “You could see the amusement in everyone’s face,” one guest said, noting the well-organised nature of the event.

And then came the food.

For three full days, porridge was served twice daily, followed by generous meals of rice, bananas, beef, beans, and groundnut paste. The cooking pots never emptied. “Sana Bigambe abile ne’sente zabile aselekile, eki nenki?” exclaimed a mourner in Runyoro, a local dialect. “It seems Bigambe had money after all. What a worthy send-off.”

In many Ugandan funerals, such lavishness is rare. Families typically rely on communal contributions announced through megaphones or whispered appeals, scraping together collecting coins and notes to cover last-minute costs. A donation table is usually a standard. 

But here, no such collection was needed.

The coffin was in place. Construction materials and labourers had already prepared the gravesite. There were no last-minute runs for missing items.

For a family known for its modest means, the seamless execution caught many by surprise and sparked quiet admiration.

“This is a humble home,” one village elder said. “But the way they planned this burial, it was almost… elegant.”

In Ugandan culture, burials are often considered the final reflection of a person’s dignity. A lavish farewell can serve as both  tribute and statement. For Bigambe, it may have been both an act of love and a subtle defiance of assumptions.

Bigambe’s family lives subsistently in Busingye village off Fort Portal-Kamwenge road. Their home–a large, four-room mud-and-wattle structure with rusted iron roofing weathered by decades of storms–houses more than eight people, most of them extended family, including Kusemererwa, the late Bigambe’s niece and the household’s de facto provider. 

Kusemererwa was raised by her aunt after both her parents died. Now in her late twenties and without children, she works as a barmaid in Kamwenge town, earning just enough to keep the household afloat. 

“Most days, I bring home about 5,000 shillings, ($1.30),” she says. “It’s for sauce when we want to get something different from beans or groundnuts, and for soap, salt, sugar, the basics.”

Like many in rural Uganda, the family grows what they eat but has little disposable income. 

Three years ago, urged by her employer, Kusemererwa joined a savings group known as Mwezike, loosely translated as “bury yourselves.” It operates as an informal funeral insurance society that offers financial and material support during bereavement. 

“We had lost many relatives, including my mother, and each time we’d struggle,” says Kusemererwa. “When I heard how it worked, I joined immediately. In my mind, at least if I died, I’d get a coffin instead of being wrapped in bedsheets.”

Each month, members contribute 10,000 Ugandan shillings (about $2.60), and can register up to four beneficiaries–two from immediate family and two from extended relations. In larger households like Kusemererwa’s, the model allows families to insure nearly everyone by having family members make the same contribution.  Effectively, one contribution can secure cover for several people. 

Kusemererwa registered her siblings and aunt, leaving one slot open, she says, “for when I have a child.”

When her aunt died, Mwezike disbursed 300,000 shillings for burial expenses. In addition, members contributed either 20,000 shillings in condolence money or brought banana clusters, a staple contribution to ensure mourners are fed.

“My burial society really came through for me,” Kusemererwa says. “It was my first time benefiting. Even though my aunt wasn’t a direct contributor, what we received was enough.”

Burial societies like Mwezike are surging in popularity in Uganda, particularly in rural areas where traditional insurance is unaffordable and death remains  frequent, often due to preventable diseases like HIV/AIDS.

For Deborah Akankwatsa, Mwezike’s chairperson, the idea was born out of grief. She comes from a region where people frequently skip HIV/AIDS treatment and infections are on a rise. 

“People are reckless. They contract HIV and don’t seek treatment,” she says. “We’re always attending funerals.”

Her turning point came after the death of her closest friend. “There was no food. No place for mourners to sit. No chairs. Even the coffin made by Byensi, another friend, was poorly done. It was just too painful to endure,” Akankwatsa recalls, tears forming in her eyes.

Soon after, she attended another burial there was a stark difference.

“You’d think it was a wedding,” she says, describing the white tents, uniformed pallbearers, and orderly procession. “It was so respectable. I wanted that for all of us. I found out later that the uniformed pallbearers were from a burial company. It was the first time I heard of death assurance or funeral insurance.”

She didn’t fully understand the concept, she admits, but on that day, an idea was planted in her mind.

“I told myself I was never going to bury anyone in such a shameful way again,” she says. “I had to find a way to change my people’s fate because death always comes.”

The idea of a community-based savings group for burials seemed far-fetched at first. The skepticism was instant.

“‘Who saves for death?’ they would ask me. ‘The money will never be enough,’” Akankwatsa recalls with a wry smile.

But inspiration came unexpectedly, during a phone call with her sister-in-law in Kabale. As Akankwatsa recounted her frustration, the inequality between the funerals, the shame, the helplessness, her sister-in-law shared a solution: she was already part of a burial society in her own village.

“It was a light bulb moment,” Akankwatsa says. “She explained everything. I realised we were already doing this, in our own way, through condolence money, banana clusters, helping cook and dig graves. We just hadn’t formalised it.”

She borrowed the structure and tweaked it to fit Kamwenge’s needs.

To her surprise, recruiting members was easier than expected.

“If you know Kamwenge, you know it’s full of sick people,” she says matter-of-factly. “People who would rather drink than take their medicine. It’s like everyone is waiting to die. When I explained why we needed the group, they got it.”

Today, Mwezike boasts over 300 registered members. However, this growth has come with complexity. Members now span across zones like Kahunge, Bigodi, and Kamwenge town. To manage this, the society has been divided into chapters, each with its own treasurer and bank account. 

“We were too many, every burial attracted more people. Decentralising helped us stay organised,” says Akankwatsa. 

Each chapter oversees its burials and maintains records, from monthly payments to member attendance at vigils. Betty Kiconco is treasurer of her village chapter, which consists of 40 active members. When a death occurs, the community is alerted, and people respond with money, food, or firewood. Attendance at vigils is monitored to ensure participation goes beyond financial contribution.

“I remember when I was growing up, when someone died, there was no gardening, no work. Everyone went to help; digging graves, cooking food, just being there,” says Kiconco. “These days, that’s no longer the norm.”

Unlike formal funeral insurance, which can cost between  40,000 and over a  million shillings per person monthly and often terminates coverage if a payment is missed, burial societies are flexible. Miss a month, and the group is likely to understand. For many, it is the only viable option.

“Five people covered with just 10,000 shillings,” Kiconco says. “That’s something even salaried workers struggle to get from corporate funeral insurance.”

She adds, “Here, registration is free. What we ask for is commitment.” 

When Mwezike started, it consisted primarily of women. Akankwatsa explains that many women in the region earn little and depend on men, “in life and in death.” 

“If your husband won’t help during burial, your family carries the burden. Many men don’t want to lose money at a funeral. Some even try to earn from it,” she adds.

In the beginning, it was also difficult to involve men in the savings scheme. 

“Men didn’t trust us because we were women and young girls thought death was too far off,” says Kyalimpa Agnes, one of the group’s mobilisers. “But now, we register new members every year, including men.”

One of those men is Ngalo Mwenda. His wife Susan, a member, passed away last year after a long illness. The family had missed four months of contributions. But Mwezike still showed up. That meant a lot to Mwenda, who was “drowning in bills.”

It spurred him to join the scheme and he fondly recalls their showing up for him to this day.  

“Those people in the city have money,” he says. “We have each other.”

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Edited/Reviewed by PK Cross, Caleb Okereke, and Uzoma Ihejirika.