This trip has been a sober one for Dr. Korieh. Unexpectedly,
he’s had to deal with numerous deaths in his immediate and extended family. For
all the sadness that surrounds the passing of a loved one, it nevertheless
opens up opportunities for me to experience Igbo culture at some of its most
resplendent. In one month, I’ve been to two funerals. The first one I attended
was very traditional. There, as you might remember from my writing, I witnessed
the gyrating rhythm of some Tiv traditional dances. All the men were adorned in
their customary robes and hats and drummers were brought into play the solemn
music for the death of a woman (men and women have different burial beats that
are played by trained musicians). This most recent funeral was vastly different
in character and tradition.
Dr. Korieh’s mother-in-law passed away last month. She was a
deaconess in the Anglican Church. Due to her high ranking in the diocese, her
family requested that she be given an Anglican burial. Breaking from Igbo
cultural expectations, when one is buried Anglican style, they are often laid
to rest in the cemetery of the church. In southeastern Nigeria ,
it is very rare to see a cemetery. Most Igbo families prefer to have their
loved ones buried either in their house (in a bedroom) or right outside the
house in the middle of the family compound. Igbo culture is a village-based
one. When women are married, they become a part of their husband’s village and,
concomitantly, his extended kin. Everyone in a village is somehow related to
every other person. Not all of them, of course, are blood relatives, but most
are related through marriage or extended family ties. An Igbo man and woman are
expected to establish their family within the village compound, and quite often
it is the case that certain village men marry women from a specific
neighboring village. This leads to mass confusion for the foreigner who tries
to make straight of all familial relationships: essentially I’ve concluded that everyone is an aunt, uncle, brother, sister, mother, father, or
cousin to everyone. Period. Due to the fact that families bury their loved ones
either in the house or right outside in the yard, it is VERY rare for that land
upon which they live to switch hands. If a young married couple decides to move
away from the “ancestral family compound,” they normally do so with the
expectation that when their parents (or grandparents) pass away, they will
inherent the family compound along with their own plot. This means that most
Nigerian families (or Igbo families to be more exact) own WAY more land they
use. Villages here are still thriving. If an Igbo man lives in the US ,
I guarantee you he has been saving up money, planning for the large house he
will build back on his ancestral family compound. The cultural pull to respect
the ancestral land of one’s village is palpable and quite beautiful to an
American who is used to rapid change and a rootless existence separated from
any kind of strong cultural sense of “home.”
So back to the funeral: It took place in an Anglican
church. Interestingly enough, even though Nigeria
was a colony of England
for over 50 years, a vast majority of Igbos practice Roman Catholicism. I was
expecting the service to last at max an hour. You know, the Anglicans normally
do a quick eulogy, sing a few sterile hymns, stand up and sit down, and then
proceed out. This was not the case. The pastor bellowed own for almost 2 hours.
The entire service was in Igbo. I understood very little. Igbo is a tonal
language, which only served to exacerbate the climatic points of the pastor’s
delivery. At times I felt as if I was at a Pentecostal revival. His booming
guttural tones echoed throughout the concrete sanctuary. Women adorned in
colorful dresses, head wraps, and scarves listened intently, nodding their
heads, gasping in astonishment, and throwing up shouts of “Halleluijah” and
“Praise Jesus!” One of the only moments of the sermon that I understood was the
5 minutes he went on a tirade about the barbarity of Boko Haram, explaining in
rather graphic detail (I assume) about how the radical sect decapitates their
prisoners. I don’t know why Boko Haram or a conversation about decapitation was
mentioned at a funeral service, but it was.
After about two hours of sitting in a plastic chair,
listening to the tropical rain thunder off of the corrugated steel roof of the
church, the pastor finally decided to make mention of the deceased and
proceeded to introduce certain guests of honor. Now, let me remind you that the
church had (approximately) 700 people in it. I was CLEARLY the only white
person. I got stares. Trust me. None of them were threatening. In fact all of
them were simply curious; nevertheless, I did not want more attention drawn my
way. Well, he kept introducing people: Here is the other pastor of the church.
Oh look, an author! A lawyer was in attendance! All of this was said in Igbo,
but I followed along well enough to catch the gist of what was happening.
Then, to my shock and horror, I heard him say, “And the WHITE MAN !”
My heart was racing. My face instantly turned red. I blushed. I was
embarrassed. I was dreading the certain impending doom that would soon to
befall me. Would they ask me to dance?! Oh, I hope not. Would they ask me to
say a few words in Igbo?! Oh, I hope not. Would they make a comment about my
pasty skin?! Oh, I hope not. At about the point where my blood pressure hit
220/120, I heard him continue, “J…ER..MI(?)…..AOUUU-T(?)! You are welcome!” I
stood up not knowing what to say. Everyone in the sanctuary turned and looked
at me. A lot of dark faces with flashing eyes and smiles. My voice cracked
like a 15 year old asking his 17-year-old crush on a first date. I said only,
“Hi” and then quickly sat back down. How anti-climatic, right!? Just when my
butt hit the chair, I realized that I NEEDED to do an about-face and save
myself in front of everyone. I decided that I would yell an Igbo greeting to
them from my chair, so I bellowed “NDWEO!” Everyone turned back around at me
and had the biggest smiles on their faces. I even saw an old woman blow me a
kiss J.
Whew. That was close. I mean, for real, this wonderful family just asked the
pastor to make me a guest of honor and all I could say was “Hi!?” Ugh....
The church itself was massive. The sanctuary was in the
shape of a pentagon (kind of). There were large square window frames all along
the walls that brought in a ton of light. There were essentially no walls to
the church, just pillars. All along the sides of the cathedral, one could
easily just walk out into a farm field. It was an open building. One felt as if
they were merely sheltered from the rain but definitely not the elements, like
one big pavilion. The church itself is actually brand new and has yet to be
completely constructed. Everything is still in a very rough stage of
construction. There is gray brick dust everywhere, the floor is chunky
concrete; and there are no glass windows or lighting fixtures installed. The
entire thing has yet to be painted, so the only color one sees upon looking at
the structure is gray and brown: brick and mortar. The stark interior of the
church contrasted beautifully with the vibrancy of the fabric that adorned both
men and women (especially women). The colors were bright: there were purples,
maroons, greens, dark reds, bright pints, yellows, and golds. Many of the
attendees most likely had their outfit specifically tailored for this one
event. And it was a gorgeous amalgam.
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