| By Abdul Sundong-Korah (Published 2009) The beauty of life and the dangers of survival are so intertwined and inseparable that just as the heavenly segment of life is pleasurable and pleasing the contrast is equally agonizing, pitiful and horrifying. Sure, life is truly entertaining that we often forget that the loathsomeness of life is usually a step away. On a rare holy day, the endangered antelope may triumph over the natural cruelty of her implacable enemy—Mr. Wolf. After a bloodcurdling chase, the hungry hunter’s timely intervention halts the wolf’s desperate and longing taste, plunging him into permanent darkness. Interestingly but inversely, as the lionized wolf lays hopeless, the weak antelope is comfortably relaxing in a safe haven. With the slain wolf across his shoulders, which event enlivens a taste for a sumptuous dinner, the hunter too will not reach home for merrymaking. As he proudly saunters towards home, he steps on the tail-end of an embittered life, and the tiny crawling creature strikes instantly, pumping its poisonous venom which quickly diffuses and reduces the superiority of our hero to the pitiful rank of his victim. Two dreadful hunters suddenly turned inert twins! What a chilling survival instincts and abundantly cruel defensive mechanisms simmering and guiding our unguided and unpredictable farmyard! But is the snake, which struck dead the hero a real hero? Not exactly. Before reaching her haven, the cowardly escaping antelope had run like a spaceship upon the explosion of the gun, its pathway murderously coinciding with the crawling creature now at escaping speed. Accidentally, its hooves pierce through the crawling hero’s three-tongued head. She too lays prostrate—not comfortable coiled but a mere breathless string. Such is the harmony of our peaceful, merciful and progressive world. As the cemetery unceasingly luxuriates in wealth, humanity’s happiness is deeply encroached over the loss of members and love ones. Sooner or later, we will miss the presence and magnificent ‘furnitures’ of some lives; perhaps, in the practicality of things, the departed may equally feel same, yearning for their abandoned children, husbands, mothers, friends, even enemies. Barely a year now, my mother (peace be upon her) also joined her colleagues at the cemetery. Painful though, I wasn’t present to see how she was finally laid to rest. But somehow that natural fear, pain and shock of losing a parent was cushioned after I had paid her a visit, which happened to have been the final. Sick and lying for months and unable to neither rise up nor talk, she rose up to the occasion of my presence. Later relatives and caretakers told me it was my voice that enlivened and invigorated her trembling breath and crippling life. “Have you gotten a job now?” She enquired though she barely managed to answer my greetings. “Yes mum,” I replied. “Did you ask for permission from management before embarking on your journey home?” She demanded further. I replied in the positive. “When your days are up, please go back to work,” she advised. Then silence follows and a visible wonderful wonder splashed through surrounding faces: ‘How come she is able to speak after several weeks of silence?’ A few moments later she lapsed into her initial inertia. So bewildering to see the strength, love, courage and compassion of a mother so waned and hopeless! For the rest of the few days I spent at home she said nothing—virtually nothing. I heard nothing too after I returned and resumed post. One morning, as I was busy editing an article on funerals, I was glumly informed that there’s a funeral at home and that my mother was the centre and convener of the mourning. Such was the end of a time. End of a time! Certainly but not exactly so. Why not? Our world is so blessed with rituals and formalities that even if a gravedigger or an undertaker dies whilst at work at the cemetery, burial will not proceed immediately. Hence my mother’s funeral may have been over but other important rites and rituals of transformation would have to be gotten through, inevitably. What are usually termed final funeral rites are so important and integral in the traditions and cultures of most ethnic groups in As time approaches for this final honour in respect of my mother, I began to recount some salient events that occurred while she was alive. My mind roamed over and settled on some fascinating disclosures she shared with me; one not too distant from her final departure. She had informed me that a pot that has been sitting in our yard was probably over 300 years old. Isn’t it amazing to discover a rare piece of history that has stared at you for years? Yet, even today, this very pot is still comfortably seated and containing water for domestic use. How did she acquire it? Well, she said she inherited it from my grandmother whom I was privileged to live with until her death. Most probably, I followed my mum home with this big pot on her head in those solemn days. “And where did my grandmother also get it from?” I asked. “From her mother too… not yours but my grandmother” she replied. What she couldn’t and we can’t tell is whether my great grandmother molded or also inherited it, as the custom provides, from her mother too. Perhaps the magic pot was made in my house and traveled round and round quenching the thirst of relatives but has now returned home after pension to serve the remaining years. Just imagine the number of people who drank and bathed from it. Imagine the unity and its bonding power all these centuries! As would be expected, relatives in whose houses this age-old pot once sat were present for the final occasion. And the unity pot did not refuse to serve them. From its contents pito was brewed, food was prepared, calabashes were washed and hands were cleaned in readiness for refreshment. Just as all complexities are a string of deep-seated commonsense notions, the processes of funerals and final funerals rites aren’t different—it’s like assembling the components of an aircraft and every part must be fixed well. In fact, virtually all participants should be satisfied— The End of a Time should come to pass without any qualms or quarrels. The very final stage comes. In accordance with our tradition, some of the deceased’s property would have to be handed over to her family. A day is fixed for this and the community assembled. The population of goats, sheep and fowls reduces on such grand occasions for various reasons. The women, after serving food and drinks, take a backstage but nonetheless follow proceedings with eagle eyes and experienced ears. Two men are appointed by the frontline elders to conduct business—inspect the contents of the baskets seated before them. Let me indicate that my mum and her sister died within two months so their final funerals rites were performed together. Hands go in and out of the baskets. |
