A tale of two funerals
If you showed up in Ghana with no knowledge of the culture and accidentally walked into a funeral, I imagine you might get the impression you had walked into a particularly raucous party. People drinking, dancing, singing, and hanging out? Seems like a good time.
Funerals in Ghana are different than a typical American funeral in many ways. They typically do not take place until several months after the death, in order to give the family time to raise money and get organized. In the meantime, the body sits in the morgue. When the big day arrives, pretty much everyone who has ever known the deceased arrives. The family of the deceased will often post flyers and even billboards around town announcing the death and giving information about the funeral.
So when my community has a funeral, our population booms from a couple hundred people to somewhere around a thousand or so. A thousand people I don't know roll into town, dressed in the traditional Ghanaian funeral colors of black and red, and begin to celebrate the life and mourn the death of the person who has died. Around sunset, an enormous truck drives off with dozens of people on board singing and playing drums. They go to the morgue to collect the body and come back a couple of hours later. Meanwhile, the relatives left at home set up mattresses and blankets outside, where they'll sleep for the several days they are in town for the funeral.
Everything is done by the extended family of the deceased. They'll dig the grave and cook for the hundreds of guests who have arrived. For this most recent funeral, several families in town built new houses for some of their out of town relatives who they otherwise didn't have space for. The family rented massive speakers which could be held not only throughout our village, but from several neighboring communities as well. Throughout the several days and nights that made up the funeral weekend, people were constantly dancing. The celebration used up so much electricity that it caused power outages.
My community is so small that there have only been two funerals since my arrival. One took place about a year ago, shortly after I arrived. I didn't know the person who died, and when the funeral itself arrived, I spent most of the weekend hiding in my room. I didn't know how to deal with the constant sexual harassment I got from visitors that didn't know me, and I found myself completely unable to deal with their comments. I didn't want to go outside to bath or visit my latrine. I listened to the music pumping from across the community and felt lonely and isolated. I am not much of a crier, and I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have been driven to tears in Peace Corps, but that was definitely one of those occasions.
We had another funeral about a month ago. It looked more or less the same, but I wasn't the same. I knew the son of the dead man, and I knew his grandchildren well. And so I went to the wake and funeral and made my contribution to the funeral costs, as everyone does. I knew a few songs well enough to sing along with my community, and I danced along to the music with them. I was even recruited by a neighbor to carry bowls of soup and fufu around the community to elders who needed to be fed. Although I did not join the all night dance celebration, I felt that I could have. I brushed off the few obnoxious comments I got, and generally felt happy, content, and connected with people.
Funerals in Ghana are different than a typical American funeral in many ways. They typically do not take place until several months after the death, in order to give the family time to raise money and get organized. In the meantime, the body sits in the morgue. When the big day arrives, pretty much everyone who has ever known the deceased arrives. The family of the deceased will often post flyers and even billboards around town announcing the death and giving information about the funeral.
So when my community has a funeral, our population booms from a couple hundred people to somewhere around a thousand or so. A thousand people I don't know roll into town, dressed in the traditional Ghanaian funeral colors of black and red, and begin to celebrate the life and mourn the death of the person who has died. Around sunset, an enormous truck drives off with dozens of people on board singing and playing drums. They go to the morgue to collect the body and come back a couple of hours later. Meanwhile, the relatives left at home set up mattresses and blankets outside, where they'll sleep for the several days they are in town for the funeral.
Everything is done by the extended family of the deceased. They'll dig the grave and cook for the hundreds of guests who have arrived. For this most recent funeral, several families in town built new houses for some of their out of town relatives who they otherwise didn't have space for. The family rented massive speakers which could be held not only throughout our village, but from several neighboring communities as well. Throughout the several days and nights that made up the funeral weekend, people were constantly dancing. The celebration used up so much electricity that it caused power outages.
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| These ladies let me join them in preparing kenkey for our funeral guests. |
My community is so small that there have only been two funerals since my arrival. One took place about a year ago, shortly after I arrived. I didn't know the person who died, and when the funeral itself arrived, I spent most of the weekend hiding in my room. I didn't know how to deal with the constant sexual harassment I got from visitors that didn't know me, and I found myself completely unable to deal with their comments. I didn't want to go outside to bath or visit my latrine. I listened to the music pumping from across the community and felt lonely and isolated. I am not much of a crier, and I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have been driven to tears in Peace Corps, but that was definitely one of those occasions.
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| This dude built a new house for the funeral, and he asked me to take his picture. |
We had another funeral about a month ago. It looked more or less the same, but I wasn't the same. I knew the son of the dead man, and I knew his grandchildren well. And so I went to the wake and funeral and made my contribution to the funeral costs, as everyone does. I knew a few songs well enough to sing along with my community, and I danced along to the music with them. I was even recruited by a neighbor to carry bowls of soup and fufu around the community to elders who needed to be fed. Although I did not join the all night dance celebration, I felt that I could have. I brushed off the few obnoxious comments I got, and generally felt happy, content, and connected with people.
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