In the tradition I was born into, burials were never expensive. Death was not an occasion for display. It was a solemn passage. A sacred moment. A time for silence, reflection, and communal support.
In those days, a bereaved household was not even permitted to cook. It was forbidden to ignite fire in a home under mourning. The weight of grief was enough. The community understood that.
Paternal and maternal relatives took responsibility. They cooked in their own homes and brought food to the bereaved family. The message was clear: You have lost someone. Sit. Mourn. We will carry you through this.
But right before our eyes, something changed.
Bereaved homes have now become places people go to eat and drink. Guests arrive not to console, but to consume. Some even quarrel over portions, complain about service, and measure the “success” of a burial by the quality of entertainment.
Worse still, there is now an expectation that the grieving family must distribute gifts and souvenirs, as though death were a festival.
These are strange practices. Practices our forebears never imagined. Practices that place additional burdens on hearts already broken.
When we speak of restoring the ways of our fathers, this distortion must be part of that conversation.
Funerals were never meant to be parties.
They were meant to be moments of dignity.
Moments of solidarity.
Moments of shared humanity.
If we truly honour the dead, let us not punish the living.
Let us return mourning to its rightful place, sacred, simple, and communal.
Nze Ukwu Ugezu J. Ugezu
Ayaka Igbo Gburugburu
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