When Funerals Became Parties, Grief Lost Its Voice, By Ebikabowei Kedikumo

By Ebikabowei Kedikumo

“Remembering How We Used to Mourn”

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