“Trusting in God, we have prayed together for Geraldine Udo and now we come to the last farewell. There is sadness in parting, but we take comfort in the hope that one day we shall see her again and enjoy her friendship although this congregation will disperse in sorrow, the mercy of God will gather us together again in the joy of his kingdom. Therefore let us console one another in the faith. Amen.” The priest read.
“Amen.” The crowd circling the dug grave mumbled.
The priest closed the prayer book and sprinkled holy water on the white casket lying in the freshly-dug grave. The choristers sang a sober hymn. He wore an immaculate-white soutane adorned with a purple stole that hung around his neck like a muffler. The wailing and sobbing ensued.
You stood dazed over her grave, wet muddy earth smouldering your old brown leather sandals, your legs felt light in the waning harmattan breeze. It was mid-February, the harmattan was retreating and the hot humid season was gradually creeping in. You weren’t sure about what to feel, about what you felt, watching the grave diggers fill the rectangular depth with the soil they had dug up just a few hours ago. They appeared indifferent; it was their job after all. They must be tired of mourning the dead of every grave they dug. They must have mourned enough for a single existence. Now that you thought about it, it made sense. It explained why they could joke and laugh while digging or filling up a grave. You, had yourself, mourned too much for your age and that made you relax, a bit, but not without the chunk of guilt that accompanied such relaxation. For all those loved ones you had lost, a father, a mother, aunts and uncles and then a grandmother. Does loss make us unfeeling? Does familiarity with death make us cold?
Relief or loss? You didn’t quite know which you felt at the time. It was, you thought, more of both. A large part of you felt the former; a smaller almost insignificant part felt the latter. Admitting it was a chore. It felt like a dark cloud of guilt weighing down on the roof of your sanity. You looked around for a moment; the crowd that surrounded the grave a while ago had dispersed. Most of them would be in the compound now, dancing, or looking for what to eat. You wondered if they felt relief too. It didn’t seem so.
Burying a dead relative is a tricky thing – especially if you’ve secretly wished them dead before. If you shed too much tears people wondered why you were so sentimental, why you took it too much to heart. They would raise questions about how close or caring you were to the deceased when they were alive. On the other hand, if you shed too little tears or none at all, it raised too many eyebrows, had you wished them dead? Or did you kill them? Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. Who knew what went through people’s minds, seeing that you hadn’t shed a single tear since she died. The thought guilted you even more, as you walked slowly away from the grave back to the compound where the interment took place.
This was a woman everyone said loved you more than any other person in world. Wasn’t it evident? They often asked. Seeking confirmation rather than an answer. You always loved grandma, since you were as young as your memory could recall. But something shifted when you were made to live with her during her last few sickly years. You fell out with her all the time. You were a teenager and could barely take care of yourself at the time. You often wondered why you had to be the one who took care of an old woman who suffered from arthritis.
There was the feeling that you were being punished for a crime you were not aware of. You did your best – washing her up, cooking her daily meals on firewood, and all manner of other activities, mentally draining for your age. There was nary a day when she admitted to be pleased with you. She would seize any opportunity to narrate to any listening ears how terribly you treated her and how useless you were to her. Although days when you was moved to pack your things to leave her you caught her near tears that the tremors in her voice betrayed. She tried to be strong. You eventually stayed. And the routine continued. Not that you felt better, but you felt sorry. Your love for her shifted in ways hard to describe. You became disgruntled and did everything with an air of someone being pushed: reluctantly, shabbily. You became a solitaire and a wanderer who sought solace in everything around him, books, a tiny Kchibo radio set, in porn magazines you found secretly tucked away.
You only brought the porn magazines out when you were alone in the room and soon learned to stroke your penis with petroleum jelly for pleasure; a mobile phone that you later bought from a notorious gambler who needed some money to gamble so he traded the phone for the little you had. You didn’t shy away from brothels either, you went once with a boy in the village who loved to visit there. You’d sneak there weeks later on your own only to have touts rid you of your money sending you away with just enough money to transport you home.
There were days when you ran away from the house all day trying to get away from everything, just for a while. On one of such days you returned home in the night to meet her whimpering in the dark, smelling of hunger and neglect. She held a matchbox in her left hand, stooping, searching for the kerosene lamp. You rushed in to help, ignoring her rebuttals and insults. When you found and lit the lamp, you saw her biting and chewing a ball of onion. She had not eaten all day. That night, you wept, tossed and turned and wished it all ended. You would wake up with the confrontation in your chest, ended? What did you mean ended? Had you become so monstrous? Standing over the grave, you let memory and indifference course through your veins. You wondered how the two were compatible. Memory. Indifference. Never in your life had you felt so inhuman than at that moment when the site of the varnished brown coffin being placed in the earth made you breathe freely.
“It is over, o gwula. Her suffering has ended.” A woman you could barely recognize sighed, as the grave diggers started to replace the sand in the grave. She was dressed in the customised funeral t-shirt, a wrappa, and a matching headtie. A cousin beckoned you to come over to the centre where the funeral internment continued. It was time for the grandchildren to dance. You hesitated for a while them joined them dancing to the live band’s version of Osita Osadebe’s Ebezina. Of course. You wouldn’t cry. It was all over. Your suffering, her suffering, were all over. Maybe someday you would be free of the guilt, but that day, you were free of the suffering. And that made you dance even more.
