Celebration of Death

“You should celebrate that you are burying your mother and not the other way around.”

My emotionless face concealed the flow of anger within me. I looked at them, the Umuada. These were mostly married women who had come to ‘take’ the rites from the daughter of the deceased. Yes take. They are ready to take as much as is possible.

The Umuada. under the ideal circumstances, were a great force for good, but greed has taken over and many things have gone bad.

It didn't matter that I was in mourning, and the knowledge of what my late mother would want was the only thing holding my broken heart together. She’d want me to hold my head high and show them that I could not be broken, at least not by them.

Many of them held folded bags to share whatever they were given and take back home as loot from the celebration of death. At that point, I could only watch them argue with my aunt, my mom’s immediate younger sister. I watched her battle with the pain she felt. This was the third sibling she was burying within 10 months. And for each of these pains, the women have gathered to collect; they had come to celebrate the deaths of her siblings.

I watched her deny receipt of the list they gave. The list contained items to give them because I was about to bury my mother. The items included bags of rice, tubers of yam, some quantity of beans, a crate of malt drink, some cooked food, and some money. This is the part of the list I can remember now, but I remember laughing humorlessly.

Here I was, dressed in black, with a wrapper tied at my waist, a proof of how deep I was in my mourning state. I was told I could be fined if I didn’t dress accordingly. Humorlessly funny.

“You should celebrate that you are burying your mother and not the other way around.”

The lady who was in charge of the group of women said this. She said this to me in response to my aunt, who bargained with her, telling her I was an unmarried young woman with no husband to support me in providing the items they requested.

They let her know there was no way they were leaving without some key items. These were women who, I was certain, didn't know my mother’s middle name. Women who I wouldn't recognize if I passed by them on the road. Yet here they were, celebrating my mother’s death.

I was so desirous of the success of my mother’s funeral that I just wanted to please them so they could leave me alone.

My elder brothers were dealing with the elders of the land and their exorbitant requests, which included a full, live cow. This was part of the ritual, and I was facing mine.

When my aunt refused to dance to their tune, they threatened to leave, saying we should have told them to stay back at their homes; they didn’t come to be disrespected.

As they stood to leave, I burst into tears. All I could think was that I had failed my mother. I looked at all of them and was certain that in all their glory or lack of glory, they didn’t measure up to my mother, be it in life or death.

I rushed in and brought all the money I had in my bag and gave it to my aunt.
“Give it to them; let them eat!” I sobbed.

They must not leave with the thought that I couldn’t honor my mother. May it never be said that my mother was not properly buried. God forbid.

My aunt shouted me down; there was no way she was giving them all of the money. My tears had broken her too.

“They are not up to my mother,” I told her. “Give it to them. They won’t dishonor my mother in death.”

Finally, they accepted the offer my aunt made. Minutes later, they were sharing the loot. Yes, loot.

Soon, I and my siblings were called for prayers. They said that as we have buried our mother honorably, so may our children bury us honorably too. I didn’t know where the honor was. The mere thought of my daughter passing through this was scary.

“Amen,” I said.

In my tribe, it is considered a thing worthy of celebration when you bury your parents, fulfilling all the requests from the people of the land. After the burial ceremony, people congratulated us for burying our mother. No one saw, and few cared about the scar we would forever carry in our hearts. You see, about three months ago, our mother slumped on her way back from her shop and was pronounced dead before the evening was over.

Our lives would never be the same, but her burial was celebrated. It was tough, but it was what she would have wanted: to be honored even in her death, even if it came with an ill-placed celebration.