Death, especially the death of a loved one, purifies the thought. It distils life into clear distillates. The important from the unimportant. The permanent from the fleeting. You cogitate on the vanity of life as you sip a N500K whisky.
As I sat in the pew listening to congregants eulogise my father-in-law, the jocose philosopher in me took over.
For instance, isn’t it chucklesome how every dead person suddenly becomes a good, caring and loving person at his funeral?
“Heaven has gained an angel.”
“Our loss is heaven’s gain.”
“We love you but Jesus loves you more.”
Who? That guy? The dude probably carries a Gomorrah passport and holidays in Sodom. Nah, bruh is probably at the bosom of Old Nick.
You do know Old Nick, right? The Adversary? The Father of Lies? The Accuser of the Brethren? The devil?
And guys, people don’t turn into angels when they die. The number of angels in heaven is accounted for. They don’t need us to add to their number. Imagine me as an angel. If you entertain a discrediting thought towards Manchester United, I’m turning you into a donkey with five legs. I’ll then put a leopard within fifty meters of you. And bless your soul if you slander pizza.
The truth is that not everybody who dies goes to heaven. After death comes judgment with Jesus. Your life will be played back in 8K UHD. Let’s hope it is not a horror movie.
But my father-in-law? Oh, he’s in the Celestial City alright. He’s got a new body. Buff too. And is that a T-Rex he is feeding?
I snapped back to earth. But these were my sobering ruminations on the day. But once you have a spoonful of that party jollof and the DJ jams “Showa”, you forget your sorrows. You remind yourself it is a “celebration of life” after all.
What “celebration of life”? A birthday is a celebration of life. A naming ceremony is a celebration of life. A soul has left the world never to be corporeal again. I don’t see what to celebrate. “Celebration of life” must be a Yoruba contrivance. An excuse to throw a party. Give Yoruba people a chance and they’ll throw a “celebration of life” party for Josef Mengele and Leopold II.
A phrase that was thrown around during the planning of the funeral was “befitting burial”. We must bid adios to my father-in-law with a “befitting funeral”. My mother-in-law wanted it. My wife and siblings wanted it. The extended family wanted it. It is “oku amala”.
Well, anybody who talks about a “befitting funeral” hasn’t bought a Glenfiddich recently. I’m nearly beggared. I should have bought “Squadi” and “Sungbalaja” for the sots. If they die, they die.
But shout out to the “Shagamu Girls” set of 96, my beloved sister-in-law’s classmates. These fine and discerning ladies read and support my blog posts avidly. Yet I’d never met any of them. So I was keen to see them at the funeral. By Jove, they would eat and drink to their hearts’ delight! If their husbands have to come and carry them home, so be it. But they were proper ladies. I didn’t need their husbands.
Talking about women, I cannot get on board this gender equality boat when women are so obviously at an advantage over men. Everybody gave my wife money but nobody threw me a bone! Yeah, I know, it was her father that died. But she still has a mom, doesn’t she? Me, I’m an orphan. Who’s looking out for me? I’ll be doggone if I give up my seat for a pregnant woman again.
And why can’t you guys ever be on time? Is it hereditary? Something Eve passed down? We know that the Night of Tribute will start at 5 pm at the church. We know that the funeral service starts at 9 am. Yet I have to scream and threaten and plead and scream and threaten and plead for my wife and sister to be ready.
And can you please explain to us men why you can’t do your make-up in thirty minutes. What is it about your faces that require Michelangelo? Just wear a mask next time. After all, many of you don’t look like your real selves after the make-up. You’ve been praying all year for a breakthrough. The angel of the Lord shows up to deliver your breakthrough. He knocks on your door. You open it. He looks at you. Then he looks at the picture in his hand. Then he looks at you again. “Nope, not her. Ta-ta!” He flies away.
We men have it tough. If you are ugly, you are ugly. No make-up to help us. No waist cincher. The upside is that whoever loves you really loves you. If Quasimodo can find love, so can we.
Anyway, I hope to never go to a morgue again for another fifty years. I’m getting too familiar with them.
Bro, you have a rare gift I must say……… Please keep writing……. The world needs to know about you…….
You write the way Jordan played basketball……. I doff my hat Sir…….
Thank you for the shout-out to the Shaggy 96 group – we appreciate your humour and insights, almost as much as we appreciate the lovely lady among us who is your sister in-law. Our ways of mourning and burying the dead are indeed unique.