A Contributory Article.
By Ebikabowei Ekedikumo.
AYAKOROMO TOWN, DELTA STATE- In the place where I was born, funerals were never a show of wealth or pride. They were small, quiet gatherings, washed clean of noise and boasting. Death was not treated as a chance to entertain, but as a slow crossing from this side to the other, a bridge walked in silence. In those days, there was a sacred calm in the air; when a person dies, people spoke softly, steps grew gentle, and even the wind seemed to lower its voice for the one who had gone.
Back then, a house in mourning was not expected to do anything but grieve. It was frowned upon for a family in sorrow to light a fire or cook a meal. The cooking place was left cold for a while, pots stayed still, smoke did not rise. That quiet kitchen stood like a witness, telling everyone, “Someone is missing here.” We all understood that grief is already a heavy stone on the chest; no one needed extra weight in the form of food and frantic activity.
So the wider family moved in like a ring of arms around the bereaved. The father’s people and the mother’s people took it as their duty. They cooked in their own homes, sometimes deep into the night, bending over fires, stirring pots with care. Then they came with steaming bowls, wrapped dishes, and covered trays, setting them down softly in the house of mourning. Neighbours brought what they could— a basket of plantain, a bowl of garri, a keg of palm wine. Every gift was a quiet sentence saying, “You are hurt. Sit. Cry. We will stand around you like a shield.” In those days, grief was never left to sit alone in an empty room.
But slowly, almost without a sound, something changed. Like a vine creeping up a wall, new habits began to climb over the old ways. What used to be all about comfort and gentle support started to bend towards display and pressure. The funeral, once a calm river of shared tears, began to look like a busy market, full of sharp eyes and sharp tongues, where people judged and whispered long after the coffin had gone into the ground.
Now, the house of the bereaved is often treated like a feast hall. People rush in not only to offer comfort, but to eat, drink, and inspect. Plates bang against each other, drinks are poured and spilled, voices rise and clash. Some guests move about as if they have come for a party, not a farewell. It is no surprise now to hear arguments over a piece of meat, complaints about the food, or harsh words about how the burial was “organised.” For some, the “success” of the funeral is measured not by the warmth of care, but by the number of coolers, the count of drinks, and the size of the spread.
As if that were not enough, a strange demand has taken root. Now, it is expected that the grieving family should provide souvenirs and gifts. Mourners leave with branded bags, plastic bowls, and printed cloths, as if they had just attended a wedding or a birthday. Death, once dressed in quiet respect, is now covered in party clothes. And the ones in mourning, instead of finding rest, are driven into worry and debt, chasing the picture of a “proper” burial in the eyes of others.
All of this drops a cruel load on shoulders already bent by loss. A family that should simply sit, breathe, and remember, is pushed into planning, buying, and hosting. They must think of caterers, drinks, chairs, canopies, music, and gifts, even while tears are still fresh on their faces. It is like asking someone who has just been cut open to stand up and cook a feast while the blood is still on the floor.
When we talk of going back to the ways of our fathers and mothers, we cannot pretend not to see this twist. We say we honour tradition, we say we respect the wisdom of those who walked before us, yet we quietly step away from their gentlest ways. Our elders knew that grief needs space, time, and soft hands. They knew that the true worth of a people is shown in how they hold their broken ones, not in how loudly they perform their ceremonies.
If funerals are to mean more than dates on a programme, more than busy days and loud crowds, they must return to being moments of dignity. They should draw us closer together, not scatter our minds over menus and souvenirs. A burial should remind us how thin the wall is between today and tomorrow, between breath and silence. It should call us to remember the duty we owe to one another while we still share the same light and air. It should be a time when hands reach out, not a time when pockets are emptied just to impress.
If we say we truly honour the dead, then we must stop hurting the living in their name. We cannot keep forcing sorrow to wear clothes it never asked for. The bereaved need rest, understanding, and real support, not a long list of bills and demands. To care kindly for the living is one of the best ways to respect the memory of those they have lost.
So we must slowly find our way back to a softer, simpler grief. Let funerals become again what they were meant to be— sacred, not showy; shared, not competitive; tender, not wasteful. Let our visits carry comfort, not hunger for food. Let our presence speak more loudly than our requests. If we do this, we will ease the load on those who mourn, and we will also reclaim a quiet piece of our own humanity that we carelessly dropped along the road.
EBIKABOWEI KEDIKUMO – writes from Ayakoromo Town, Delta State.
