My Mother's Ghanaian Funeral

Today would have been my parents 36th wedding anniversary. I doubt that last year, on their 35th anniversary, either of them would have had any thought that I would be using the phrase "would have been" to describe their anniversary this year. I dedicate this post to my parents, Larry and Alberta, who made me the person I am, and the person I hope to be.....

In December 2002, my family went to Ghana. My mother had a big party to celebrate what I thought was her 54th birthday (it was actually her 60th, but that's for another blog). As the party was dying down, a little old lady said something to my mother that made her laugh. I found out later that the little old lady had said she hoped that when she died, my mother would host her funeral, because my mother knew how to throw a good party.

In Ghana, a good funeral is also a good party.

My mother died 5 months ago, when we had a funeral and burial for her in Maryland. A few weeks ago, we had her Ghana funeral.

I learned in March, when my mother's US funeral was going on, that Ghana funerals cover 3 days:

Saturday - We Bury

Sunday - We go to Church

Monday - We talk about the Money

"We" means the family; both immediate and extended, and in Ghana extended family is really extended.

We Bury

We were asked to take clippings of my mother's hair and nails to Ghana with us, to be buried in the family plot. This was put into a small coffin that my older sister, Affie, had arranged. As a family, we drove from Koforidua, where my sister lives, to Aseseeso, a small town that is the traditional family town of my mother, where the family plot is.

In the US, at funerals people tear up, a few people sob or cry, but for the most part, emotion is held in check. In Ghana, emotion runs high.

Women typically wail, loudly, screaming at how much they miss the departed, asking to go with them. I saw some of this at my mother's US funeral, but with only two Ghanaian relatives wailing, it just seemed odd.

While we were in Ghana, wailing had been going on, off an on, in the days leading up to the burial - when we arrived in Koforidua, in the morning before heading to Aseseeso, and when we arrived in Aseseeso. It got to a fever pitch, however, when the graveyard workers started to cover the coffin. It seemed that all the women were screaming, my older sister hurling herself at the grave, asking to go and be with my mother. She had to be physically restrained, otherwise I think she would have dove into the ground.

It was a lot more emotional for me than the crane that was used to put my mother's coffin into the ground in the US.

Men are not expected to show weakness, but me, my dad, and my uncle (who had really stressed being strong, and who had had a contentious relationship with my mother) were all in tears.

Within 30 minutes however, the mood had completely changed.

People were boisterous, hugging each other, smiling, and laughing. If an American had come onto the scene at this point, they would never have guessed that a burial had just taken place.

We got back to Koforidua in the early afternoon, where loud music was playing, tents and chairs had been set up, and a lot of people were coming to visit - and to party. My family sat in a row, shaking hands of visitors, who seemed to come in big groups - one group numbered about a hundred by my count. It was a lot of hand shaking of strangers, who may not have not even known my mother, and a lot of hand sanitizer use by me.

After greeting people for about an hour, the immediate family went into the house as the loud music went on outside. Between songs, people would take the microphone, announcing who they were and how much money they were donating to the family. This went on for about 5 hours, until it got dark.

The beauty of the "We Bury" day is the outfits. Everyone is wearing black, dark brown, or dark red; funeral cloth. It was really a sight to see all these people, very similarly dressed, marching through Aseseeso to the family gravesite, at the gravesite, and mingling afterward. I again was struck, like I often am when I go to Ghana, at just how much family I have, and how few of them I know.

Photos from the day by Alan Lew - more photos by Alan can be found here

We go to Church

On Church Day, we again wore similar outfits, but this time, they were white.

It was decided that a short memorial would be held at the church where my parents were married, 36 years ago. Because Ghanaian church services can go on for hours, we were told by one of the church's members when to get to the church. We were also told when we would be able to leave.

The church was huge, and packed. My family was asked to come up to the front, twice; the first time was for us to introduce ourselves and the second was for my dad to present a gift to the church.

The memorial was good at the church, although I liked the US memorial service better. The minister did not personally know my mother, so what he had to say didn't have the personal touch the minister in the US had.

After we were told we could leave, our family had many pictures taken in the yard of the church, with the minister, and with each other. Again, it was this big group of people, with similar outfits, almost all related to each other in some way or another. My dad was the gutsiest of all of the men in the group, wearing a traditional outfit - he looked better in it than I thought he would, to be honest. I still couldn't wear it though - one of the many reasons my dad will always be more African than me.

My family, after church

The afternoon of Church Day was almost identical to the afternoon of Bury Day - we sat and shook many hands, music was played, money was donated. I was actually persuaded to dance on Church Day, and the people who asked me were surprised at how quickly I took to the dance - I guess I got it from my mother.

The thing that stood out for me that afternoon had to do with one of my aunts.

My aunt is part of an organization/club that helps out each other, in times of need. A stream of women came in, almost all of them carrying food, or other products on their heads. One by one, they came in, to music, put down the item they were carrying, and started dancing in a circle. In the end, there was a lot of food and household items, with elegantly dressed women dancing around all of it. After the food was taken into the house, the women danced out, in line. It was beautiful.

My aunt's organization, dancing in

More money was donated to the family, and in the evening, the tents were taken down, the speakers taken away, and the party portion of the funeral was over.

We talk about the Money

All the money that was donated over the previous two days had to be divided up somehow.

The siblings of my mother, and Affie, argued about money on that morning, in addition to other things. I was not involved in this, and don't really know how it was settled. What I do know is that I heard a lot of yelling in the compound as I sat in my room. This lasted for a little over an hour, and then everyone seemed happy.

As the yelling stopped and the happiness started, Affie came in and got soft drinks for all of them. She told me she was giving them cold drinks, because they all needed to cool down after the heated argument.

I never have found out who got what. I hope Affie did not leave that meeting empty handed, because she arranged almost everything that weekend.

So the funeral was over, and life would soon get back to normal, at least as normal as it could be without my mother around.

During the weekend at some point, I happened to see the little old lady from 2002. I chuckled to myself when I saw her, remembering how much she had enjoyed my mother's birthday party, but was also saddened to know that my mother would never be able to host the little old lady's funeral, as she jokingly had hoped.

I thought to myself, would my mother have liked the funeral Affie had arranged for her? I had a one-word answer to myself - Yes.