My Grandmother’s Funeral (Fiction)

My grandmother’s elder sister, Uloaku, was convinced that my grandmother Adaure, did not die a natural death. One night, after Grandmother’s death, we all sat on the veranda of her beautiful country home and talked about her. She was a kind woman. She had a noble heart. She was the perfect cook. She was Ada di ora nma. Everybody remembered something about her and shared the story. Uloaku was the last to talk and when she did, she said that Adaure was killed. Mother told her not to take the death too hard, that Grandmother was diabetic, but she insisted, saying it was not time for Adaure to die, that she was killed and she would ensure the person behind it suffered for it. When she stood and walked away, her Dunlop slippers made shuffling sounds against the interlocks. Everybody remained silent and the stillness of the moonless night returned.
I didn’t remember many things about Grandmother. I knew she was a beautiful woman; fair and gaptoothed, but we lived in Abuja and Grandmother wouldn’t come to the city and our country home was forbidden because Mother didn’t want us to be caught up in all the superstition. My granduncle Ikemefuna said nice things about Grandmother and told us that she has joined the ancestors and would be part of our spiritual guide, so we should be grateful that she lived a good life.
In the days that followed, preparations were made. Grandmother’s other children who lived outside the country, came home for the funeral. Mother invited sixteen priests and two bishops. Our parish priest, Fr. Onyema prayed for our family and sprinkled holy water around the compound. After he left, Uloaku sprinkled something that looked like red sand around the compound, saying it would keep away evil spirits. She didn’t talk much, though she sang in the nights, while breaking melon seeds. She often started with a shrill voice that grew louder.



The funeral started with the wakekeeping. Mother did everything to shield us from superstition. She told us not to cry, not to dance, not to go close to village people, not to eat the meat, not to leave the house. But I was writing stories about Uloaku in my head. I found her interesting and later that night, I went to talk with her. She smiled sadly and held my arm. After she asked me about school, we talked about Grandmother. I reminded her that Grandmother was seventy five and what the doctor said. She disagreed, insisting her sister died prematurely. She said, in a voice laden with bitterness and strength  “Someone is not happy that your grandmother’s seven children are all doing well, five of them abroad. Someone is not happy.” She said she knew the evil one and that Adaure would fight back. When I asked how, she told me there were many things I would never understand. Then she went back to breaking melon seeds, her searching eyes observing, lips pursed, taking in every detail of the wake keeping.
I pondered on Uloaku’s words during the homily of the burial service the next day. Many mourners were dressed in white T shirts that bore Grandmother’s picture. After the gold embellished cream casket was lowered, we took turns pouring sand on it. Uloaku was the last to do so. After she poured her sand, she placed a short broom and a kitchen knife inside the grave and dared anybody to come close. Then she spoke; to grandmother or to the casket, to chase whomsoever did this to her. She told her to fight with the knife and sweep with the broom. Mother held me and whispered that her mother died naturally, was already in heaven and not to be carried away by Uloaku’s words. She was worried that the Knights and Ladies, Legionaries and Catholic Women Group she invited had to see that.
The night after the funeral, when most of us were sleeping, a piercing scream broke into the night. When it continued, followed by short strange sounds, we came out of our rooms towards the veranda. My granduncle Ikemefuna was running out of the house, his wrapper loose around his waist. Clouds were gathering, and the arid smoke from firewood stands filled my eyes.
Uloaku was sitting outside. When she saw Uncle Ikem run past, she went to grandmother’s grave and shouted, “Nnoo nwanne mmadu. Welcome. Chase him Adaure, chase him. Adaure igbo nine, do to them what they did to you.” My mother immediately dragged me inside, muttering something. Afterwards, I could hear Uloaku’s happy singing. It was a different singing. I was sure she was sitting alone, breaking melon seeds, her wrinkles standing out and forming a web-like pattern. I longed to ask her questions but I had the misfortune of staying awake all night, wondering what happened to Uncle Ikemefuna and where he was. 

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Happy Halloweeeeeeeen
(From stories I wrote in my teen age)