The graveyard…

THE  graveyard is a busy place, especially in a megacity like Lagos. I know, because I was at one such facility in a low-density part of Lagos on Friday, December 23, 2016 for the burial of a 24-year-old who died of natural causes. Beside the burial plot of the deceased were several other freshly dug graves, with the masonry complete and ready to receive their human remains. It reinforced the reality that death, like life, is routine. The activity level at the graveyard was no different from that of a building site, with bricks, mortar, slabs and granite coming together as skills and resources permitted.

Given the age of the late deceased, the funeral that I attended was itself a solemn affair and the distraught parents stayed away according to Yoruba tradition where it is considered a taboo to witness the burial of one’s child. The young man’s friends were there in their numbers to say their final goodbyes, as were other family relations, work colleagues and acquaintances of the nuclear and extended families. There was sadness, but also solidarity.

There was weeping, but also consolation. And then, there was hope: hope of a hereafter, infinitely better, and where present cares yield to indescribable freedom and joy with the parting of the silver chord. The officiating clergy held a brief church service within the premises of the cemetery and one of the ministers shared a penetrating sermon. I recall the essential elements as: the importance of numbering our days; the value of malice-free living; the benefit of appreciating one another in this life; and the unique opportunity life offers to wake up each day determined to do the best we can, never knowing when the bell will toll.

In the two hours or so that we spent at the cemetery on this hot and hazy afternoon, I counted at least ten funeral processions, with each one proceeding with either fanfare or dazed solemnity according to the age of the departed. In one or two instances it was something of a mini-carnival with gorgeous attires and elaborately uniformed pall bearers and other attendants serenaded by loud music. It occurred to me that even in this hallowed setting, we sometimes forget to consider each other. Loud music and dancing is hardly the right complement to the burial of a young person, or of a lady who passed away in childbirth, or of a victim of violent crime, and so on. Yet, we carry on, oblivious of how the toxic exhaust of our social exertions can signal heartlessness and create disturbing unintended consequences. Perhaps, just perhaps, we could learn to be a bit more considerate for each other, or even organize the funeral schedules such that each funeral party has its own time and space to perform its obligations without invading the space and sensibilities of the others. But again, as I found out, the grave yard is a very busy place …..

Life is hard enough in Nigeria, and this becomes even more complicated at death as I found out. For instance, the procurement of burial slots at cemeteries, as well as funeral services, is an expensive undertaking. I found out that “no frills” funerals in regulated public cemeteries can be quite expensive, and may cost as much as one million naira. The public cemeteries themselves could be better laid out, maintained and managed. Instead, what I found in this instance was chaos. The entire graveyard was not laid out according to any recognizable grid pattern to facilitate the location and identification of individual graves, and the grounds were not well looked after – an understatement!

Many of the individual graves had degenerated to the point where they were little more than moss-encrusted sceptic tanks, and quite a few have caved in completely, exposing whatever remained of the contents to the elements. The “office” within the cemetery was itself in a mess and a sorry picture of dilapidation. This is symptomatic of much of what is wrong with us as a people, especially the careless disregard for order; the disrespect for both the living and the dead; and the apparent congenital inability to perform simple acts of maintenance consistently over time in public facilities, especially without financial inducement.

There were the usual hangers on at the cemetery that perch and leech on human misery. These unashamed bottom-feeders demand openly to be “paid” for every spade of sand they shovel, or for any spurious service they purport to provide. These leeches operate with the silent but potent threat that the grave of a loved one might be left unattended or violated if their extortionate demands were spurned.

Perhaps these uncomfortable realties opened the way for private enterprise to invade the business of death, as next door to this public cemetery was a private one. I never got the chance to step into this private facility, but its two-meter high walls, covered with greenery, and its stout wrought iron gates, speak to its bourgeois status as a privilege reserved for the elite. Again, in the business of death, class boundaries are manifest to the extent of determining which cadavers will rest in one piece and which ones may sooner or later rest in pieces.

The cemetery is a sobering and busy place. When the time comes, it may be the location for one last appointment that others will honour on our behalf if we are so lucky. For now, what matters is to live well by numbering our days, bearing no animosity, appreciating others, and being the best we can be every day, God helping us.

• Oduah writes in from Lagos