AFRICAN BURIAL - A WIDOW'S PLIGHT ...Episode 1

The year was 1962 and the month was March. My sick father had just passed on and his burial ceremony was been discussed. Though I was just 16, naive and innocent at heart, I witnessed the entire event, which left me with a heart wrenching experience and a desire to change our ways as I grew older.

It wasn’t the wish of my late father to be buried traditionally, but with the compelling forces of my paternal family, and their (our) acclaimed traditional rites, against his dying wish, we were compelled to journey down to the village with his corpse for a traditional burial ceremony. It was also on that condition only that they would attend the ceremony and send their dead son home properly. My mother knew it was grandma’s trap, but little did she know it would be extreme and barbaric.

That notwithstanding, on different occasions, my mother had gone down on her knees and begged them to please honour her husband’s last wish; but each time she did that, it resulted to serious quarrels and many heated arguments. In fact, on two occasions, they have asked her if she had a hand in their son’s death.

My father died of lungs cancer under the caring watch of our mother. His people no doubt thought otherwise as they always humiliated my mom and her mother with witchcraft accusations. They also constantly accused them of using witch power to hold back and control his wealth; but all that wasn’t true. My father was a chronic smoker and couldn’t help himself, despite various doctors’ warnings and advice, he still couldn’t quit. He just couldn’t help himself. He was a good man and the best father I would have ever wished for, but his smoking habit took him away from us too early.

Our parents were city dwellers, die hard city dwellers and the thought of a village ceremony filled me and my younger brother; Ebuka with some excitement, as it was our first visit to the village; but all that changed on arrival..

On arrival, except for the ambulance that conveyed my father’s corpse, our vehicle was besieged by angry members of the family, many of them crying, and many others raining abuses and throwing evil gesturers at our mother. Some even spitting saliva on her from a distance. What a bizarre way to welcome and console a widow.

Seeing the humiliation meted out on our mother, I and my little brother began to cry.

"Witch" some of them shouted, "witch, you have killed our son".

By the entrance was my paternal grandmother, long nicked named angry grandma by me and Ebuka. She was surrounded by sympathizers, crying, wailing and throwing herself in all directions…"she has killed my son, my only son. This witch has killed him, she has eaten my only son"; she cried at the top of her voice.

Seconds after her breath taking demonstrations, she asked for her grandchildren and I am Ebuka were immediately ushered to her. She grabbed us with both hands in a manner that seemed less like a hug and more like she was protecting us from some sort of evil that arrived the village with us.

My ever noble and humble maternal grandmother watched from the sidelines with two of her daughters, tears dripping endlessly from their eyes as they watched helplessly.

Having been a victim of a similar fate, she saw all this coming and had earlier warned and begged our mother not to fight back or utter a word.

Their elders and kinsmen also stood by the sidelines, watching with sealed lips while our mother was being humiliated.

Suddenly, a voice was heard; enough. It was the voice of the eldest man in the family but the words that fell from his mouth didn’t do any good; rather it did more harm.

Scrape off her hair he said, wearing a grim face.

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Immediately, a strange looking midget whom I had earlier mistaken for a statue emerged from the corner of the house where he has been standing; and with some crude unsterilized instruments in his hands he proceeded to scrape off the hairs on my mother’s head. It was a bloody scrape as blood dripped from her scalp down to her face, before finally flowing down with her never drying tears.

More tears rolled down my eyes and I could hear myself say the words please stop, but I was inaudible because the words drowned in my crying voice.

Nneka my mother’s youngest sister couldn’t stand it anymore. Bitter and fidgeting, she cried out; mama this is too much, Ada is being tortured, I am never going to be married, I cannot bear this for any reason. God please help my sister.

Looking at my now bald and broken mother, even a blind man could see that her soul had deserted her; and that moment, having put all the pieces together; it immediately dawned on me why my father never wanted a traditional burial. On his dying bed, and in the presence of those same monsters, his mother inclusive, he had asked and insisted to be buried a Christian way and in the city.

My mother and angry grandma never saw eye to eye, she never wanted her as a daughter in-law and she still didn’t. On countless occasions, grandma had accused her of deterring her late son from taking care of her. It had always been a one sided war between the two of them, with grandma always playing the attack, while my mother played absorption, as her upbringing and desire for peace didn’t allow her to play defense, let alone attack. The same thing she played while they desecrated her.

The wake keeping proper had just begun and different traditional rites were been performed; one of which required that his eldest son washed his back with a raft sponge which I did and another which my maternal grandma had feared they would perform because of its barbaric nature and the health hazards associated with it.

They washed my dead father’s feet and asked my mother to drink from the wash water, as a proof that she had no hand in the death of her husband; their illustrious son.

Prove your innocence yelled angry grandma who watched the entire event from a distance, as it was a taboo for her to be in attendance of her child’s burial. Traditionally, elders were not allowed to play roles in the burial ceremony of younger people. They could only watch and guide from the sidelines.

Prove it or face the consequences yelled another who looked more like a scarecrow than human. My mother had earlier been warned by her mother. So she knew the consequences were far more dreadful. Thus, the evil before her was far better else she would be desecrated; given a witch’s treatment; stripped and paraded naked for 7 days while been whipped, with shouts and chants of confess being echoed around her.

At this point, there was no turning back for my mother and with tears free falling from her already heavy eyes, she gulped the water, putting them to shame and putting her life at risk.

It is done said one of them, no witch can survive this. Now your witchcraft and treachery will be exposed. Take her to the mourning room and let dawn tell if she is innocent or not.

This was exactly what they wanted and my mother had played along without resistance; but dawn will tell.

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Watch Out For Episode 2

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