R.I.P. and/or P-A-R-T-Y!!

Last week, my husband received a phone call from his brother in the UK. There has been a death in the family. Now, in case you’re not aware, Ghanaians have an exceptionally strong sense of family, and it extends well beyond what Americans might consider “immediate family.” Great aunts, uncles, second cousins twice removed, great grandmother’s half-sister… it can get quite complicated. How it relates to us, is that it is Sly’s brother’s ex-wife’s father who has passed away. Still with me?

Local custom demands that the family elders be personally advised of a death of an age-mate. A visit to my elderly mother-in-law, who is the ex-in-law to the deceased, was planned for mid-week, and because "J," my brother-in-law, lives outside of Ghana, it fell to Sly to “represent” him at the announcement. In keeping with the custom, the family of the deceased brought with them a gift of gin or schnapps.

Reciprocating, Sly and his sisters must now go visit the family of the deceased and personally offer their sympathies to the children or widow. They will go bearing gifts of "better" gin or schnapps, and a token cash offering. The funeral details are confirmed.

In this particular case, it is December 15^th. “Whoa,” I'm sure you're saying to yourself, “that’s more than three weeks away!” Yes, it is. And you know what, by Ghanaian standards, that funeral is really all too soon. One of the logical and rational reasons that funerals are held weeks or even months after the death is because so many Ghanaian families are scattered far and wide across the globe, and even those who live a continent or two away will try their best to return home for the funeral. Another "reason" for the delay has to do with misplaced perception: The longer the body is in the morgue, the more money it will cost, the more cash spent on the funeral, the higher the reputation of the deceased and the family.

Now, I have been very fortunate in that, in my whole lifetime, I’ve only been to a handful of funerals. Funerals are not fun. They are often quiet, somber, retrospective affairs held in a funeral home, with (what we deem) appropriate dress, music, flowers, propriety. Usually within a week’s time, the dead is buried or cremated, and those left behind try to get on with their lives. Funerals in Ghana are nothing at all like anything else I’ve ever experienced, and I was not remotely prepared for the Ghanaian funeral experience.

While the body is held in a local mortuary, the family of the deceased feverishly attempts to make all the arrangements. The family takes care of almost everything. With a single exception (that I am aware of), there are no American or European-styled “funeral parlors” in Ghana. While the body is embalmed at the mortuary, the final washing and dressing of the deceased is done by the family. The coffin is purchased by the family. The cemetery plot is bought by the family. Flowers or wreathes are purchased by the family. Newspaper obituaries are written, ordered, printed and placed in the local newspapers by the family. Obituary posters are tacked up along the funeral route. Arrangements for all of the various church services are arranged by the family. The renting of a hearse (really, a modified ambulance, complete with sirens) to ferry the dead among venues is done by the family. The renting of a hall or club and requisite tents, chairs and tables for the before, during and after-funeral gatherings are arranged by the family. The DJ with his musical accoutrements is arranged by the family. The food, beer and sodas are made or bought by the family. The purchase of the funeral “souvenir” gift is arranged by the family. And the list of things that the bereaved family must do goes on and on.

Last year, Sylvester and I were invited to a funeral by his boss, whose father had passed away. Now, “Ferd” is a big shot in the community; he is a Ghanaian “mover and shaker” with few equals. We traveled for about two hours to get to the village, and followed the crowd to a hotel at the base of the Kwahu mountain range. When we got there, we found a huge open lot had been cleared, with dozens of canopies set up to shield the people from the blazing sun, under the canopies several hundred plastic chairs were set up in a U-shape. There was even (shock of shocks!) about a dozen port-o-potties scattered about the grounds. Hired help passed out bottled water, soft drinks, beer and hot food.

When we arrived, we saw that nearly every seat was taken, though oddly, the front row of chairs in each section was entirely empty. We assumed it was intended for the family. As we approached, other guests gestured to us that it was alright for us to sit in the front row seats, so we did. Big mistake.

It is customary in Ghana, upon entering a room (or in this case, an empty field), that each newcomer greets the persons already there with a handshake and a hello. This is done from left to right. And Sly and I were seated in the first row of chairs on the left. No wonder they were all empty! We must have shaken three or four hundred hands altogether. Bus loads of men and women came (seriously... bus loads), all of them wearing red and black kaba and slit outfits (women) or draped cloth (men), and they approached us in what was a modified conga line, waving little white handkerchiefs and moving to the beat of the blaring highlife music. After the first hundred or so "greeted" us, we realized that our helpful "friends" behind us were kind of chortling to themselves (at our expense, naturally), but we were too embarrassed to just get up and look for other seats. Darn it, we needed someone to save us! "Ring, ring, ring,"chimes Sly's phone. It's "Ferd," and he's spotted us from across the field (I do kind of stand out, even in this huge crowd), and wonders basically what the heck we are doing waaaay over there, in the cheap seats. Duh. We're building up our biceps, what does he think?

Our hero, I mean, Ferd, invited us up to his family house, where there is an “exclusive” gathering. What that means is, we get to sit in an air conditioned living room, have someone bring us drinks in glasses, eat hot food served in ceramic bowls. We were hobnobbing with the rich and famous in Ghanaian political society, Ministers, advisors, you name him or her, they were there. Funerals are the place to go if you want to see and be seen. And if you're a Ghanaian, you can't not go to a funeral. Short of your own death, there is really no good excuse for missing one.

One of the elite who undoubtedly witnessed (not without some bemusement, I should think) our discomfort caught my attention, and asked me, pointblank, "How's your arm?" I laughed and responded that it ached a bit, and she chuckled and told me, "that that (nodding towards my sore arm) was the reason why the entire front row was always vacant." "Ghanaians know better," she said. I think, in retrospect, that there should be a warning sign, maybe something like this:

Front Row Seating

There are certain responsibilities attached to sitting in the front row of a Ghanaian funeral celebration. In the event of a funeral, you are responsible for greeting and shaking the hand of each and every newcomer and sympathizer. Ensure that you listen carefully to the greeter, they may say more than just hello; respond in the appropriate language. Grasp the greeter's hand gently and pump up and down only once, release. Move on to the next person. Tips: You may keep your hand outstretched between fast moving mourners. Keep a handkerchief handy to wipe off sweat. This is an important job. If you don't think you can do it, move.

Earlier this year, an elderly neighbor passed away. As I recall, immediately after the man’s death, his widow arranged for her house to be repainted, and the pavement between our properties to be paved. Naturally, my husband (SUCKER!) “contributed” to the paving... which is a nice way of saying he pretty much paid for the whole thing.


The day of the funeral, a canopy was set up right outside our wall, and fifty plastic chairs were brought in. The DJ had his stereo speakers anchored to each post of the canopy, and the highlife music started playing at around 6:00 am. There was cold beer, food and music… very, very loud music. This went on for 4 endless days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. We had very little respite from the activity, noise and party atmosphere, except for the incidents of “lights off” which, for a change, was a blessing.

Now, attendees to a Ghanaian funeral are customarily expected to “donate” a little something to the family. In most instances, the contribution doesn’t come close to covering the cost of the beers and chicken that they consumed while offering their condolences. At the conclusion of the funeral, the family sits together and tallies up their earnings, I mean, the “contributions.” Sly overheard the family meeting after the neighbor's funeral, and told me that the voices were raised in anger and anguish, because they didn't "make" as much money as they had hoped, and not enough to pay for all of the costs.

The truth is, most Ghanaian families will go into debt to finance the funeral. I’ve read several newspaper articles and columns in the local Ghanaian papers decrying this sad phenomenon. Even the exceptionally staid UK-based Economist reported on this alarming trend:

http://www.economist.com/world/africa/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9234475

It was even addressed on the floor of Parliament, by the NDC Minority Leader, Alban Bagbin was reported to have said, "we are investing in the dead rather than the living through expensive funerals and that is bad." To read the full article, follow this link:

http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/features/artikel.php?ID=117472

I am trying to think of a way to say this delicately, but I can’t, so I’ll just come out and say it: Funerals are more than a fact of life; they are a form of entertainment. You get to dress up in your funereal best, greet friends and family (some of whom you may not have seen in ages), network with potential business associates and politicians, hear the “Good Word” preached, listen to great music, drink a cold beer, eat some chicken and fried rice, and maybe even get a parting gift, like a coffee mug or handkerchief with an effigy of the deceased on it. Not bad for a small donation.

A Day in the Life at 5.6° N 0.0° E

A very brief Social Studies lesson: Tema, Ghana is the nearest city to the geographical position of 0 degrees latitude and 0 degrees longitude. While not exactly at the crossroads of the Earth, as proclaimed on some billboards (it is actually 5.6° N 0.0° E ) it is, nonetheless, a bustling and vibrant place. Tema began as a small fishing village, and grew expotentially largely thanks to the vision of Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, who foresaw a great port and industrial town, and arranged for the city to be designed in such a way that the workers would have their own homes and communities and shops within which to live, work, play and worship. Most homes are bungalow styled, with alley ways separating the smaller streets. Currently, there are 25 Communities in Tema; we live in Community 8 and are building our new home adjacent to Community 25.

But I don't want to talk about leaving my house today to explore Tema. I want to tell you what it's like right from our little bungalow, here in Community 8. Right along side our home is a smallish alley way, not intended for vehicular traffic but rather for pedestrians. Now, most homes, even if they have a yard, are surrounded by high walls. There are very few homes that have picket fences. If your hearing is poor, you will have missed out on a lot.

Our day starts very early, usually by 5:00 a.m. By 5:30, we hear the call to prayer from a local mosque, situated in a house about a block away, the prayers and songs continue until about 6:00. Shortly after this, the parade begins. The first calls of "tea bread" are heard, and there are several ladies who pass within feet of our window, offering bread and butter for sale, carried in a large flat box which is covered by cloth to keep away the flies. This, like most things, is carried on the head. The trays are usually so unwieldy, that the seller needs help to remove it, and to put it back up. Tea bread is a very soft doughy bread, slightly sweet, that the kids like to dip. At about 60 cents for a large baguette shaped loaf, it is quite a bargain.

A little while later, you will hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the shoe shine boys, who carry their wooden boxes over their shoulders, and alert you to their presence with a rhythmic drumming, which they do in time with their footsteps. They are loud enough and pass by frequently enough, that even if you miss one, another is sure to be on his way past with very little wait. They can glue a loose sole, sell you new laces, restitch a purse, even fix a pair of flip flops. Prices are negotiable, but very very reasonable.

Later in the morning, the vegetable ladies will pass. They sell tomatoes, onions, garlic, okra (okro), carrots, spinach (kontomire), yams, plantains, mangoes, papaya (pawpaw) and some other things I don't even recognize. There have been many lunch hours when I thought how nice a red onion and sliced tomato would be with my tuna sandwich, and before long, I hear the longed-for words, "tomatoes... onions." Of course, in the local language, which is (phonetically) amoaah and gyeene.

"Oh darn, I can't believe I ripped the hem on this dress. I did so want to wear it today." Has that ever happened to you? Not to worry. Just listen for the clink of the shears that the traveling tailor carries, as well as the old fashioned black Singer pedal sewing machine. Yes. Carried on his head.

Imagine, it is late afternoon. It's hot, you're sweaty from hanging out your clothes on the line. What could be better than a nice cold ice cream. Wait! What's that you hear. An old fashioned bulb type bicycle horn? It's the Fan Ice guy with his portable icee chest atached to a bike! Yep! Ice Cream and frozen yogurt, and sometimes little cakes or spring rolls. Yummy! I always get the Fan Choco, which tastes like chocolate ice milk; the kids opt for Fan Yogo, which is strawberry flavored. I try to steer the kids away from Fan Ice which is supposed to be vanilla ice cream, but I have some major reservation about what the HELL could be in anything that won't freeze! Hmmmm?

Hungry for a nice piece of juicy sweet pineapple. "Es pine-up!!" is what you've got to listen for. These young men sell their fruit from a wheelbarrow, and for about 60 cents each, he will cut it and slice it for you, and put it into a little baggie. Delicious!

Maybe you've got too many glass jars in the house, because the mustard, mayo and ketchup all finished at the same time. Ghana does not have official "recycling" so I'm loathe to just toss them into the trash. Again, all you have to do is listen. You all know the sound of glass when it's struck by something, it makes you wince, doesn't it? Well, there are some very industrious young men who walk through the neighborhood, who gently clink their glass jars together to alert you to their presence. They will actually buy the empty glass bottles and jars from you (though I just give them freely, and ignore the strange look they give me for doing so), and then resell them in a secondary market.

Growing up, one of our favorite "crude" songs that we kids liked to sing went like this, "Stranded. Stranded on a toilet bowl. What do you do if you're stranded, and you have to go? Just to prove you're a man you must wipe it with your hand. Stranded. Stranded on a toilet bowl." I know you know it. Well, that doesn't have to happen here. "T-Roll" is the cry, and the rolls are sold, either individually or by the 10-roll bag. Of course, I'd like to think that one wouldn't really wait til the last minute for this particular item, but if you know you're running low, it's nice to know it will make it's way around to you.

The tinkle of a small hand held bell heralds the arrival of the ladies who sell used clothing. Most of the clothes is carried in a bowl on her head, but she typically carries a few of her "better quality" clothes from a hanger. These women never took Marketing 101, but they're savvy enough to know you've got to put your best stuff in the window. And some of the ladies specialize! It's not unusual to see a woman who appears to be wearing several bras like a veil, since they are draped over the bowl and the cups cover her face as she walks.

The shear variety of items sold by street sellers in my neighborhood is simply amazing. While not all make pronouncements as to what they are selling, if you could sit and watch the parade pass you by, no doubt, you will have enjoyed the show. Among the things you can buy, right outside your own gate, are watch batteries and costume jewelry, shower sponges, wooden matches, coconuts, musical instruments, sandals, light bulbs, baskets, dish soap, wax print material, packaged cookies, wooden student desks, chickens (live ones), boxes of tissues, clothes lines and curtain rods, sanitary pads and diapers, CDs and DVDs (pirated, of course), bibles, school notebooks, socks, crates of fresh eggs, bed spreads... you get the picture. And you can buy a picture, today, just as soon as Alex and I walked out of the gate to go to the store (for her penny candy, no less, one of the few things NOT sold by local hawkers) a seller passed by carrying weeping Jesus framed prints.

Not everything passes by on a given day, some days it's relatively quiet and you'll only get the Fan Ice guy. But one thing is certain about living in Tema, good things come to those who wait.