The burial

A man died close to my ancestral home and as the tradition dictates, I am supposed to go for mgbaru. Plus, the man was a friend of my father's. They grew up together and as my father says, "chased Squirrels together," when they were children. So, I just can't avoid attending, to see his family and tell them, "Ndo" and "kaa n," in spite of the financial implications. The guy is broke, my people.

My father has volunteered to accompany me.

It is quiet in the late man's house after the early wailing, hysteria and, dancing that followed the death and burial. We are now here with them, seated with the rest of their people who have come to fulfill the mourning rights, 'on' n'ekwa.' We have come with a carton of Hero,  beer. Red dust coats the bottles. Days of idle stay in my father's 'retirement' shop.

They're all thanking us and now and again, one person rises to pass a plate containing some bitter kolas, lobes of Orji Igbo, sweets and chewing gums, saying "wer' ọjị" to the people.

The plate comes to me and I  take a lobe of kola nut and munch. But, I'm thinking about things.

I am thinking even as the people laugh to the funny stories that my father and the other titled men are telling. They're telling stories to remember the man,  his youth and the time he was the hardest worker in the farms. They sigh. They heave their shoulders. Then, they laugh.

I am thinking that perhaps, 'hard work' doesn't really make people wealthy. Smh! Why are some people born, only to die on the same spot where they were born, with no fanfare, no memories of luxury?

A drunk man comes along and speaks some rubbish grammar and the people laugh harder. The drunk guy is a jolly good fellow but, I  wonder how he manages to be happy in this village that is getting increasingly, deserted. All the young men have left for the cities to look for money. It's now lonely and, too quiet.

The women begin to sing and dance. Red dust fills the air and the men throw money at the dancers. They're happy. But I'm feeling uneasy. Why do we really dance when people die? Why do we drink and eat? Perhaps, my mind is affected by my view from where I am seated.

I am seated behind the guy whose father died, thinking about how too young he looks to carry this family.

Everyone looks upon him to carry the family but, I am thinking that it's unfair on him, that he even looks too young to be seated on the ancient chair of his fathers. How will such a young man  carry the family?

They tell him, "try to make money and build a bigger house, send your siblings to school, take care of your mother, fight those people who are trying to take your father's lands."

But, he's only nodding, staring into the distant whirl of red dust. I am sure he's thinking how almost impossible it looks, that which they're expecting him to do, how bleak the future seems.

Time is against me and I  rise to go. I shake hands with the boy and I want to tell him to be strong but, I decide not to.

There are times when words seem to be weights on people's shoulders.