John Ofor was still pinching himself, as he sat waiting in
the living room of the Rectory. His arrival had already been announced by the
steward, and so the parish priest should materialize any minute. John had
travelled down from the Northern city of Kano where he lived and worked to his
hometown of Isuofia to officially notify the kinsmen, elders, parish, women’s
union and all manner of sundry groups of the death of his mother.
Mama was 85 years old before she died. John had been barely
7 years old when he lost his father and so had little knowledge of what went
into a “befitting” Christian burial. He had rarely visited when distant uncles
passed, and remained blissfully unaware of the various accompanying rites and traditions.
Till the day after mama died!
Firstly, was the task of getting the parish priest’s consent
to announce a date for the funeral. It had to tally with the parish’s
programmes, and this was only given after obtaining “clearance”. John had come
with Mama’s tithe card, which only had the last month she had been away
visiting in Kano, in arrears. The priest though had upon his belated entry, sent
for a voluminous register and was now checking page by page. Thus far, pending
pledges towards the new transformer, re-kitting the female choir, re-roofing
the main church, purchase of a new lawn mower, support for the out-going
Monsignor’s farewell party, had all been unearthed.
John was dazed. He had yet to meet with the ‘umu-ada’, or the ‘ikwunne’. Each of these female groups was demanding a live cow
before attending the burial in ‘official capacity’. The church choir had
indicated that a bag of foreign parboiled rice and a carton of soft drinks
would do for them. His car booth still harboured 2 cartons of Schnapps drink,
to be given the ‘umunna’, to seek
their attention before ‘officially’ breaking news of the sad demise to them, even though they all knew and had already taken delivery of the special cap to be adorned for the occasion. This was outside the list of items
to be fulfilled in their favour upon breaking the news.
No group thus far had volunteered to help defray any cost or
execute any service. None had bothered, even his immediate kinsmen, to donate
to the outrageous fees charged by the village Mortuary or the absolute fortune
expended to ferry her corpse home all the way from Kano State, a distance of
820 km. All respondents had been more bothered about choosing and acquiring the
uniform fabric,’aso-ebi’ to be
distributed to and worn by extended family and friends at the burial ceremony.
Then there were fees for the traditional rainmakers, who you
only ignored at your peril. Then gift items to be distributed to attendees as
souvenirs. Hiring of chairs and canopies. Entertainment of guests. Provision of
private security for guests and corpse! Yes, corpses had been known to be abducted
before by diverse interest groups, from those protesting the burial site to
those seeking to draw Government attention to their own grievances.
John couldn’t shirk the duty as he was Mama’s first son and
it was a role traditionally reserved for him. In Kano where he lived, the
residents were mostly buried same day after confirmation of their death with
minimal fanfare. John resolved to start a campaign on social media upon his
return to Kano, to seek a change to these Southern customs.
#Letthedeadburythedead! Away with the fanfare, after all death was for the
spirit, not for the living.
In High School, he had often marveled at the story of Julius
Ceaser. It had been his favorite school text, aside being his much read novel.
Now he understood his kindred spirit Marc Anthony, whom said ‘I have come to
bury Ceaser, not to honour him’! Poor man must have been trying to avoid the
likely huge clearance involved. John couldn’t dare such a stunt with any of the
village factors though. The rainmakers had been known to create a major storm
just overhead a particular location, over any perceived slight by the organisers
who had ignored them. No, he wouldn’t subject Mama’s weary spirit to another
battle. Ceaser had been a General, this was different.
John looked up. The Priest was still barely halfway through
the thick register, furiously punching the calculator. John shook his head and
closed his eyes. It was going to be a long day.
Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.
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