My first funeral as a child

Covid-19 pandemic has had most people around the world staying at home in a bid to control the spread of the virus. For extroverts, we have had a rough time keeping to ourselves, not attending parties and events and the most important of all, minimised interactions.

This period has made me look back and reflect on my life since I was a kid to date. My cousin and I were talking about the moments when we lost our loved ones and how we coped during the hard times of grief. The conversation went on and on and we started talking about the first funeral we ever attended.

At what age did you attend the first funeral? Did you know what was happening? Had your parents talked to you about losing a loved one?

I remember the first funeral I attended. I was four years old. My great grandmother had passed on from what I came to know later was ulcers. She and I shared a bond that was so strong that as she lay bedridden, I always kept her company. She used to take a spoonful of pink powder for medicine amongst other drugs. Then one day, I went to her room and she was no longer there.

I asked around for her but there was no one available to answer me. No sooner had I gotten over not seeing my great grandmother than people started streaming in our home and before long, the day of the funeral had arrived. I could not understand why there were so many people, why a wooden box was laid on a table in the open, why there was a ‘hole’ that had been dug up in the garden. The questions were just so many. I wanted answers.

I was a very curious and inquisitive child. I was also known for being mischievous. My dad and I shared a bond that was so strong and I believed that he was the person who was going to put my mind to rest. I walked over to where he sat and tapped his leg. He leaned forward and said, “what is the matter child?”

“Why are there so many people here? Who are they and what do they want?” I asked.

“They have come to say hello to us” my dad responded.

“And what is that box on that table?” I continued.

“There is someone in there and the box will be put in that hole over there and it will be covered with soil” my dad goes. This response made me shocked and scared. How can people be so cold-hearted? Who puts another person in a box and buries them?

“What happens when that person wants to wake up and go outside? Who will help them out?”

“Well,” my dad responded, “When he tries to sit up, his forehead will be knocked by the top of the box and they will lie down again.”

“Will he ever ...”

My dad interjected and told me, “If you speak again,” he said pointing towards some people, “those men will take you and put you in the box instead of that person.” I did not say another word for the rest of that day. I could not imagine being put in a box and being buried underneath just because I could not keep quiet.

However, many years later, that experience hasn’t left me. I remember it so vividly and I cannot believe how on earth my dad was able to coin such a story in such a short time. Or did he know that I would ask questions and was waiting for me?

African parents are known for not talking to their children about sensitive topics like relationships and sex, death, and more. I hope that when I have kids of my own, I will understand why these topics are difficult for parents. I also hope that when I understand, I will learn how to talk to my children about anything. I will not scare them away when all they were looking for was answers.