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| The Funeral Didn't End |
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| Written by Sylva Nze Ifedigbo | ||||
| Monday, 23 March 2009 | ||||
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The funeral didn’t end with the dismantling of the last canopy or with Niko the record man packing up his old skool music equipments which in the last three days had played every thing from Rex Lawson to Sunny Bobo.
Actually death began knocking when two years ago the rampaging FCT Minister knocked down his just completed hotel building in Abuja despite a court order to the contrary. The bricks of that building, every drop of sand that made up its frame were lined with over fifty years of hard labour and it had been a bit too much for the old horse to handle. The resulting high blood pressure would have killed him but for the doctors intervention. Since then, he had been living on borrowed time.And so when news came in that the goods that just arrived from Japan, ten 40 feet containers that represented a last desperate effort to save his business from final collapse had lost its value almost by half as a result of the Naira crashing under the weight of the global economic crises, the barometers in his arteries shot up and this time even our tears couldn’t hold him back. The young doctor with a gap tooth had looked from me to my wailing mum, shaken his head in the negative, whispered something that sounded like a condolence and spirited out.A great man had died so a great funeral had to be staged. I was only twenty, but as the only son I had to stay through endless long meetings with uncles who converged like vultures at a feast, pretending to be so concerned when they rarely visited when he was alive, with members of his age grade who seemed determined to make this a record breaking funeral, with members of my towns union whose former chairman he was, with his colleagues in the importing trade most of who were also fading away, with the Catholic Men’s organization from our parish, a group of aging civil servants and traders, with the Peoples club, an elitist club of money bags he had joined years back when the going was good and with another group that consisted of people from all the other groups; the committee of friends. There was so much to be done and with uncanny frankness, my Uncles had insisted on every thing being accomplished to the final detail. It didn’t matter to any one that there was hardly any money, for as far as they were concerned their brother was a wealthy man and left behind riches a chunk of which must be used in seeing him off to the other world. At the center of the tapestry was Mother who had a silent task of proving she had no hand in her husband’s death by not being stingy with his supposed wealth on the one hand and ensuring that her beloved husband of over twenty Five years got a befitting funeral on the other. When the pressure got so much she did what she had to do or was forced to do. First she sold her Rav4 jeep, then the Mercedes flat boot. Two properties at Victoria Island and festac went up similarly too. Finally, using her Boutique in Oshodi as collateral, she took a bank loan.Posters were printed. Announcements were placed in both the television and radio. Full paged “A rare gem is gone” adverts were taken out in news papers. A gloss paged brochure had to be printed. All the in-laws had to be informed of the death with a goat and some tubers of yam. His age grade got a cow, it was their law. The Igwe’s cabinet got the same. Branded tee-shirts that didn’t last beyond the first washing were printed. Two other materials were also sewn as mourning cloths. The peoples club brought their own list, a retinue of criteria that must be met before they would turn up. The Ozo cult of titled men brought theirs, even the church too.The church’s emissary was the village catechist. The Priest wasn’t going to set a foot into our compound for the wake keep nor would he welcome the corpse in his church for the requiem Mass if every penny owed by Father and Mother were not fully paid. This included all sorts of dues, levies and ‘taxes’, some of which dated back to the year of my birth. The old house, a two storey building that was inhabited only when we came home for Christmas was renovated. Even in mourning the point had to be made that this man built a big house in his fathers' land while alive. Interlocking tiles had to be laid in the compound to bring it up to 21st century standards. One or two trees had to give way and a grave site lined with imported tiles was built at the Far East corner.For the three days the funeral lasted, ten cows died. Chicken and goats were not to be counted. Food and drinks had to be in excess as it was unheard of that sympathizers left a funeral hungry. Much of the food was wasted, swept away in the mornings. The men went home staggering from alcohol only after Niko had put off his musical instruments signifying the end of activities for that day.Now the funeral ought to be over. The canopies are gone, the music is gone, and the people are gone. But not for us. There was Chineye’s school fee to be paid. It was her final year in college and there was so much to pay for and exams to register for. Ifeoma in addition to her own school fees needed surgery on her left eye which doctors say could only be done abroad. I had my text books and handouts to worry about. Besides all that, we needed to feed but there was no money.The funeral didn’t end, no it had only began. With uncles angling around hoping there was anything left to be carted away. With the bank sure to take over Mothers shop. With Ifeoma gradually going blind. With Chineye not meeting the jamb deadline. With me staying back at home, to become the father at twenty. The funeral didn’t end. Sylva Nze This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it Brief Profile: I was born in November 1984 in Abuja, Nigeria. Studied Veterinary Medicine at the University of Nigeria (2007). In 2007 Spectrum Books published my book “Whispering Aloud”. My essays and short stories have appeared online and I own a blog site “nzesylva.wordpress.com” Views: 1320
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| Last Updated ( Wednesday, 25 March 2009 ) | ||||
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