“Just because something is traditional is no reason to do it, of course.”
― Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book
I watched the village women wailing and pulling at their hair in response to my grandfather’s arrival at his ancestral home. They called his name over and over again to let him know he had arrived. Alas, there was no response because he was no longer alive in our world.
As if the scene was not chaotic enough, we were welcomed by the darkness of the village and thrown back into the days of my grandfather’s youth. But there was no symbolism to this, just a gesture of incompetence by the government. My family members scrambled to get a generator working so that the undertakers may start their work at the local church nearby. In all the chaos, I watched my mother stand strong because it was not time yet for her to grieve. My grandfather had yet to be situated.
My brother, cousin and their friends worked hard in the darkness, only lit by the cell phones and car headlights to start the generator all the while being assaulted by tiny little creatures of the night. And then there was light!
It took two men to lift my grandfather’s body out of the back of the ambulance and six men to carry his casket. He was a small man. He was carefully put inside the church and hidden away behind some curtains to wait till the undertakers finished decorating the church. The rest of us waited patiently outside in the dark. We all had battle-worn faces but we kept our jaws tight and waited. The undertakers requested food so that they could do their work properly. It didn’t matter to them that we hadn’t eaten in hours and were starving more than they were. We waited as they ate and finally disappeared into the church again.
Finally, my grandfather’s oldest child was summoned to talk to him. My mother went in to the church accompanied by my brother. Her task was to talk to her father’s body so that he would allow the undertakers to dress him. You see, my grandfather had passed on 45 days earlier and until this evening had been in a deep freezer at the local morgue surrounded by hundreds of other bodies waiting to be claimed and buried. My grandfather was lucky to have been retrieved so early by local standards. Needless to say, his body was not as supple as it was when he was alive. My mother had to stand strong as his limbs were forced to bend so that he could be dressed. This moment was too much for my mother’s first born son. He went into shock and had to be taken out of the room. While the undertakers finished their work, my brother asked to die so that he could be with the old man again. All through this my mother stayed strong and supported her son. Her grieving was again deferred.
I find it important to note that while this was going on, my brother was asked not to cry because it would spoil the face of the old man. An old belief but one that was still valid in my grandfather’s world. It struck me that the dead got more sympathy than the living.
The villagers had started to gather. Some danced, some ate, some nursed their babies while we waited to view my grandfather. Finally he was revealed. He wasn’t as I remembered but it was him. My grand aunt began wailing, my mother told him how handsome he looked over and over again. I watched silently because I felt numb by the spectacle. Day one was over.
Day two began 4 hours later when we drove in convoy to the village surrounded by darkness. Our task was to greet my grandfather as the sun rose. Today was the day he would be buried. We arrived at the church and he was still lying in state. We stood around him and as we tried to have a moment of peace, a village woman could be heard loudly complaining about how my grandfather was dressed. She didn’t give a damn that we were in mourning, it only mattered that her voice was heard. It took everything in me not to slap her into the next century since that would have been considered rude.
Breakfast was now served for the visitors at my grandfathers house. The women slaved over coal fires and outdoor kitchens to provide welcome food for the guests. Nearby, the caterers were hard at work to feed over 200 people after the funeral service. The air was thick with grief, regret, sweat and tears but we all worked hard so that my grandfather could have the best send off possible.
Once the church members and villagers had gathered, it was time to officially say our goodbyes to the old man. This portion took the better part of 3 hours. My grandfather was loved by many and had provided for many. This was one of the biggest gatherings the village had ever hosted. Visitors game from all walks of live to pay their respects or at least to gawk at the family and voice their criticisms.
My mother cried silent tears for the man who had thrown her away so many years ago. But yet she loved him. Even when he still betrayed her, she loved him and provided for him. I will say my mother is a better person than me. As I thought how I would not have cared about him in such a way, the universe blessed me with a visit from my own estranged father. I hadn’t seen him in 16 years but yet knew he would show up to this funeral.
My father stood lost, wrapped in his traditional cloth. He was flagged by my aunt and his girlfriend. I walked over to greet him and he didn’t know which of his children I was. If I wasn’t so numb, this moment would have been profound to me. His sister began to cry crocodile tears and I stared at her politely. I reminded my father who I was and he hugged me and told me I had put on weight. I smiled the warmest smile I could muster and took him to greet my mother. It was a long walk because we had to walk to the end of the row and greet everyone before we reached my mother. She was gracious to the man that had abandoned us so many years ago. Once again I say my mother is a better person than me.
The service was now over and we had to serve our guests their lunch. All hands were on deck to feed the 200 people who had come. When we were done feeding our guests, we realized that the food line had grown again. People from all over had come to be fed. After all it is free food so why shouldn’t they partake again and again. I smiled at the new Visitor Choppers and served them again. Apparently humility wasn’t their strongest suite. While this was going on, my grandfather was delivered to his final resting place in the village graveyard. We watched our satiated guests walk away. Some still grumbling that we hadn’t given them seconds. Day two was over as we left the village exhausted and dirty.
Day 3 began with a visit to the village church for the morning service. Here I sat outside while waiting for the service to finish. Four collections were taken. I was reminded why I didn’t attend church anymore. The church had declared open season on our wallets since we were visitors. I was ready to give them anything to leave. Finally, I was out of our misery. Now we were supposed to join the rest of the people at the funeral grounds. The funeral grounds was an open area with seating. A DJ played as an MC goaded the public into making donations to the family of the dearly departed to help with the funeral costs. This went on for hours. I resigned myself to the safety of our car because I had grown tired of shaking hands with strange people I would never see again. I was begging Day 3 to end.
I wasn’t around for Day Four where the final accounting of the funeral took place. This when people grumbled about money they didn’t spend or money they had cheated other out of in the name of tradition. My mother and brother dealt with this part as I was happily on my way back to the capital city.
All in all it was said to have been a successful funeral. I was determined to not attend another. I saw the best out of people and the worst from some. But at the end it was all expected because this is tradition!
