If she wasn’t so intimidating I’d tell her that those were strong words coming from a woman I’m sure I’ve not met before. I’d tell her she doesn’t have the right to tell me how to act or speak at my father’s funeral, but looking around, it’s clear that this is my extended family in a nutshell. It doesn’t matter if we talk every day or if we’ve never even met, she is family and that means she can drop in whenever she likes and remind me of who my father is and by default, who I am.
“Go on, Baaba.”
I almost say I don’t know how to respond but then remember my mum’s response to another auntie minutes ago. “Me ho ye,” I say slowly. “Wo ho te sen?”
My pronunciation isn’t great and I’ve probably missed out a word or two, but she breaks into a big smile. Approval.
“See? She knows it,” Aunt Abena says. “She thinks she doesn’t, but it is in her.”
She passes to go into the house, and I think about how the language I’ve mourned never learning has on some level already been taught. A language I thought too difficult to warrant effort has already embedded itself into me. I can probably converse simply by recalling the responses of others. So I listen as we wait and it’s a nice distraction. I listen to my family’s chatter and translate in my head and try to store the words I might need today and maybe tomorrow.
Yefre wo sen? What do they call you/what is your name?
Me din de … My name is …
Mente ase?. I don’t understand.
That will come in handy.
* * *
We’re not very organized. The dead are more prompt than the living, as the living are currently deciding which cars to go in. Aunt Abena is unsurprisingly taking the lead. She pushes Mum toward one car, then folds her fingers into her palms repeatedly, says “Bra ha” to James and he helps Auntie Mabel into his.
“Are you in this one?”
“Nante yiye.”
“Let’s go now.”
“The address. What’s the address?”
“Kyer? me kwan no.”
Twi and English are flying in the air. Heels on the pavement, engines revving, and car doors slamming. For a moment, I stand alone because if Dad were here, his would be the car I’d sit in. For years, wherever he went, by bus or by train, to the supermarket or the GP, I’d go with him, until I had to begin going instead of him.
Aunt Abena gently pulls on my arm and tells me to get into the silver car.
The man at the wheel is familiar, belonging to the group from Mum’s church, but I don’t know his name. He’s a friend of the family, or a family friend, or family but not blood-related, whichever one, it doesn’t matter. We pull away from the house and travel down the road.
We’re the third car behind the procession. Every time the hearse turns a corner and I see the photograph of Dad, large and framed, sat at the end of his coffin, the tears resurface.
People on the street turn to watch us. A dog barks. One old man makes the sign of the cross. When their eyes meet mine, my chest opens and I feel exposed. I hope I remember never to stare at a funeral procession as it passes ever again.
* * *
I’ve never been through a graveyard before; I used to avoid cemeteries because I worried it would tempt fate. Looks like fate found me anyway.
The sun is hot and the ground is uneven. My black cotton dress feels too heavy when I watch the cemetery workers lower my dad into a burial plot. They talk amongst themselves as they work because this is their own personal brand of “just another day at the office.”
People I didn’t greet at the house come up to me, but I don’t really see any of them. Hello, Uncle. How are you? Me ho yε. My condolences. Medaase. You’re so big now. Aane. Do you remember me? Sure.
Then we’re all stood surrounding a rectangle of hollowed-out earth. In there, at the bottom, is my dad. Aunt Abena is adjusting her headpiece and my uncle Osei swats at a fly. James is staring at the ground, Mum is pinching the bridge of her nose, Auntie Mabel has her head bowed and Uncle Freddie dabs his eyes with a white handkerchief. Suddenly I miss the noise from before: the Twi, the cars, the movement.
“Are we all here?” Mum’s pastor asks. He’s a tall, lean Black man who must duck to avoid a tree’s swooping branches.
“Yes,” Mum says.
“Then let us pray. Lord God, we commit this day into Your hands,” he says. “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Mr. George Wright…”
He finishes by telling us that Dad is in a better place and that we as Christians need not mourn, but give thanks to God that we have a place where we will reunite with loved ones someday. We are blessed as believers because death is not the end.
The tributes are read: “George Wright was clever and studious … As he was a faithful man, even when physically weakened, he will be at home now, with the Lord and family already gone … He was a hardworking man and his discipline allowed him to travel from Ghana and make a living in London…”
I’m the only one who struggles to get started. I bite my lip and breathe through my nose. When words still won’t come out, Mum rubs my back and whispers, “Take your time. There is no rush.”
“I will remember my dad for the smile on his face whenever I walked into the room.” I clear my throat. “Although he often preferred his own company, in his final years his love for his children only grew. It is, and will continue to be, strange going home and … and not finding my father there. Life is different without him now; I wish I could say I was at peace, but the truth is that it’s difficult and I’m struggling. But I’ll get there. And if it takes a while, that’s fine, because if there’s anything my father’s smiles taught me, it’s that it’s not too late to start again. It’s not too late to be the person you want or were always meant to be.
“I … Sometimes I think of love as pieces of one heart. When I love someone, I break off a piece and give it to them. There are not so many because that way each piece is substantial, but without a doubt, my dad has one of the biggest pieces I have and will ever give. It cannot be replaced. It is his forever. God bless my father and may he rest in peace.”
I don’t like my eulogy because I don’t feel it encapsulates everything, but how could it? How can I, in front of my family, describe that I’m not only mourning my dad but the life I lost when he became sick and the life I’ve lost now that’s he’s gone?
Dad’s immediate family sprinkle earth onto his coffin, we sing hymns and Pastor prays again. I stare into the deep rectangle of earth carved into the ground, where, at the bottom, in a box, my father’s body will remain forever. Auntie Mabel sings a Ghanaian burial song and then we watch the grave being filled. It takes a forklift, a truck, and a man with a shovel. I rest my head on James’s shoulder, my cheeks hard and dried. He pulls me into a side hug. He smells expensive, not of acrid body spray or heavy aftershave, but light and reminiscent of gummy sweets.
“Sorry I was never there, Mads.” He sniffs and when I look up, he’s crying. “After what you said the other day in the kitchen, I see what we did to you. I don’t even know what to say.” He nods toward Dad. “And there’s nothing I can do for him now, either. I missed all my chances.”