Snapshot: Funerals in Ghana
I sit in a sea of blue plastic armchairs, arranged carefully around trees to keep as many guests as possible protected from the hot afternoon sun. Over a hundred people are gathered in tight bundles, sorted by how they knew the deceased. Every woman (unless she is a nun) wears a black headwrap and, if she has the means, a "funeral outfit" of red and black kente-- colors that, according to cultural practices, mean the deceased passed too soon. Every man wears his best smock, although as evidenced by the variety of colors present, the precise dress code to which female guests seem required to adhere does not apply to their male counterparts.
When we arrived, I watched as the male and female members of our group slowly parted. The men immediately approached the body, which was placed on a small stage covered in ornate tapestries.
After spending a few moments looking up at the body, they moved diagonally a few steps back, and then a few feet to the left in a triangular pattern that was repeated multiple times. The women around me, however, remained glued to their spots, loudly wailing as if they, too, had just lost a close relative--although tears did not appear in their eyes. I found myself almost wailing as well, but for a different reason: unlike American funerals that are held within a few days of death, this funeral had been planned for four months, meaning the body had had time to decompose for that length of time. Meaning although the body was placed in a lifelike position-- sitting on a chair, holding a scepter and bowl of pito-- let's just say no one would be fooled into thinking the person was still alive.
After dodging a number of chickens and pigs (the funeral was held on the deceased's farm) to get back to my chair in the shade, I was met with a small army of young women serving us a variety of pleasantries: water, jollof rice, TZ (a flour and water dough served with okro soup), beer, and--as it is the Upper West-- pito (a local alcoholic drink).
At this time the departed's children came by to greet us. Each was covered in hankerchiefs-- a symbol of mourning-- that were gifted to them by various guests. In addition, bowls were passed around to collect money towards the funeral expenses (and as a kind gesture-- similar to monetary gifts for American funerals).
Since the Upper West is heavily Catholic, the deceased was put to rest after a Catholic mass in her honor with language identical to that of a mass one would see in America (if that mass was given in Dagaare). What I wouldn't see in the States, though, was the casket she was buried in: a large, expertly painted Bible, symbolizing her devotion to God. After a litany of eulogies, we all watched as the large Bible was slowly lowered into floor of the deceased's home-- a practice meant to symbolize her role as the foundation of her family-- accompanied by dozens of loud explosions.
Why the explosions?
According to the sign language-challenged teacher next to me: "it's just chemistry."
Or did he mean it's just the culture?
When we arrived, I watched as the male and female members of our group slowly parted. The men immediately approached the body, which was placed on a small stage covered in ornate tapestries.
After spending a few moments looking up at the body, they moved diagonally a few steps back, and then a few feet to the left in a triangular pattern that was repeated multiple times. The women around me, however, remained glued to their spots, loudly wailing as if they, too, had just lost a close relative--although tears did not appear in their eyes. I found myself almost wailing as well, but for a different reason: unlike American funerals that are held within a few days of death, this funeral had been planned for four months, meaning the body had had time to decompose for that length of time. Meaning although the body was placed in a lifelike position-- sitting on a chair, holding a scepter and bowl of pito-- let's just say no one would be fooled into thinking the person was still alive.
After dodging a number of chickens and pigs (the funeral was held on the deceased's farm) to get back to my chair in the shade, I was met with a small army of young women serving us a variety of pleasantries: water, jollof rice, TZ (a flour and water dough served with okro soup), beer, and--as it is the Upper West-- pito (a local alcoholic drink).
At this time the departed's children came by to greet us. Each was covered in hankerchiefs-- a symbol of mourning-- that were gifted to them by various guests. In addition, bowls were passed around to collect money towards the funeral expenses (and as a kind gesture-- similar to monetary gifts for American funerals).
Since the Upper West is heavily Catholic, the deceased was put to rest after a Catholic mass in her honor with language identical to that of a mass one would see in America (if that mass was given in Dagaare). What I wouldn't see in the States, though, was the casket she was buried in: a large, expertly painted Bible, symbolizing her devotion to God. After a litany of eulogies, we all watched as the large Bible was slowly lowered into floor of the deceased's home-- a practice meant to symbolize her role as the foundation of her family-- accompanied by dozens of loud explosions.
Why the explosions?
According to the sign language-challenged teacher next to me: "it's just chemistry."
Or did he mean it's just the culture?
Comments
Post a Comment