I Hate Funerals

I heard the scream last night. The typical Nigerian 'Ah, what happened to them?' And this morning, my thoughts were confirmed. It was another family member I probably have never met or don't remember, and now they are gone. But, yet again I feel nothing.

You see, I have always felt like it's harder for me to feel, especially in situations like this. But then, maybe not feeling is my mind's way of blocking out the pain. Maybe not in this particular case or any of the other times I barely knew the deceased.

But, what of the ones I knew?

Our former pastor's wife. I would go to evening service on Thursday and sleep off, then wake up the next day in a house that was not ours. I'll step out and find our pastor's wife, who offered to take care of me for the weekend. They had a bag packed for me while I slept, and now I was in the care of another one of my many "grandmothers"—a term we fondly used for older women who took us in and cared for us like family.

Her death was too strange for my not-so-little brain to process. I could not have been older than fourteen, so I knew what death was. Yet, the finality of it was something I could not comprehend. I remember not being able to attend any of the ceremonies held—it was just too much.

For a long time, I held on to the small handmade beaded toy she gave me from her collection of things she made. Anytime I see it to this day, it’s a subtle reminder of the fact that we’d never meet on this earth again.

And what of him? He was pretty much another father to me—a constant presence in almost every major achievement I’ve had. He had a nickname for me and would joke about how my dad and I were inseparable, often teasing that he couldn’t wait to see my wedding day.

He spoke about my graduation and how he just had to be there. But one day, I got the call while I was in my hostel—he was gone. I had watched the constant stress everyone endured as they witnessed him practically fade away over the past few months, but I held on to a thread of hope that he would be fine.

I put up the poster for his funeral with my own hands, but I never read the details. Maybe if I ignored it for long enough, it would prove to be false. Even the visit to his family—I acted as though it were just another casual visit.

And maybe that’s why, the other day, while I was coming down the bridge, I saw him. I was about to shout his name and run up to him as always. But then, I remembered—it could not have been him.

I could go on and on, but what difference would it make? I still wouldn’t like funerals. I avoided graveyards the best I could, and even the few times I had no choice but to show up, it was as though hands were springing up and ruining everything in me, from my air passage to my heart. I just had to get out of there as fast as I could.

I hate funerals. I hate the finality of seeing. I once saw my cousin being put together for so long, only to finally break down when he saw the body in the coffin.

Maybe the bliss is not in seeing. Maybe life would have been easier if people were just taken up into the sky. Maybe it would have made it easier to bear.

Just maybe.