Beyond the Grave
Published: 23 February 2013 By Abiodun Giwa
Burying a father or mother is a reminder that one will one day be passing through the same phase, to be buried by one's children or loved ones where there isn't an offspring. It is one power exercised by creator that no science has been able to challenge.
The Christian scripture said we were born and we shall die. And we shall take nothing with us when we leave, just like in birth. I remembered this injunction last weekend standing before a casket that contained my mother's remains.
Alone I stood before the brown opened wooden casket. I tried to begin a conversation before I realized that dialogue wasn't possible in that situation.
I looked at the object in the casket and asked in soliloquy whether the remains was indeed of my mother or not.
I said my mother wasn't this dark. Could the transformation have been caused by one month long in the morgue? I searched for a point of identification. I couldn't see any. I believed I couldn't see any mark of identification because the complexion was dark and it was night. I decided to return early morning for a search of identification. No one among family members and others who attended the lie-in-state and service of songs knew what was in my mind. The following morning I arrived in the room and still alone and I opened the casket. After what seemed a long and painful search for the mark, I succeeded. I saw a tattoo written in Yoruba language 'IDERANITEMI' she had on her upper right arm. With excitement, I told a nephew who came in spraying air-freshner that I was glad I saw a mark with which I identified the remains as that of my mother. He asked me to show him the mark, and I did. The dark skin had almost obscured the tattoo mark. My nephew said I was painstaking to have been able to find the tattoo mark.
At that moment the meaning of the tattoo-Peace of Body is Mine-became relevant. It seemed she was fast asleep and in perfect peace. She seemed younger and reduced in size compared to when she was alive. And the dressing was such that one would think she was a young lady with pointed breasts.
"Who gave Mama pointed breasts?" a lady who came in and saw the breasts asked. My mind told me there must have been a creative artist in the funeral home who dressed my mother like a spinster.
It was the last I saw of my mother's remains before the pall bearers walked in and commanded it was time for the journey to the cemetery, for the last leg of the journey.
But journey to where? I asked. I found the answer in John Donne's 'Death Be Not Proud'. "One short sleep past, we wake eternally. And death shall be no more."
The Christian scripture said we were born and we shall die. And we shall take nothing with us when we leave, just like in birth. I remembered this injunction last weekend standing before a casket that contained my mother's remains.
Alone I stood before the brown opened wooden casket. I tried to begin a conversation before I realized that dialogue wasn't possible in that situation.
I looked at the object in the casket and asked in soliloquy whether the remains was indeed of my mother or not.
I said my mother wasn't this dark. Could the transformation have been caused by one month long in the morgue? I searched for a point of identification. I couldn't see any. I believed I couldn't see any mark of identification because the complexion was dark and it was night. I decided to return early morning for a search of identification. No one among family members and others who attended the lie-in-state and service of songs knew what was in my mind. The following morning I arrived in the room and still alone and I opened the casket. After what seemed a long and painful search for the mark, I succeeded. I saw a tattoo written in Yoruba language 'IDERANITEMI' she had on her upper right arm. With excitement, I told a nephew who came in spraying air-freshner that I was glad I saw a mark with which I identified the remains as that of my mother. He asked me to show him the mark, and I did. The dark skin had almost obscured the tattoo mark. My nephew said I was painstaking to have been able to find the tattoo mark.
At that moment the meaning of the tattoo-Peace of Body is Mine-became relevant. It seemed she was fast asleep and in perfect peace. She seemed younger and reduced in size compared to when she was alive. And the dressing was such that one would think she was a young lady with pointed breasts.
"Who gave Mama pointed breasts?" a lady who came in and saw the breasts asked. My mind told me there must have been a creative artist in the funeral home who dressed my mother like a spinster.
It was the last I saw of my mother's remains before the pall bearers walked in and commanded it was time for the journey to the cemetery, for the last leg of the journey.
But journey to where? I asked. I found the answer in John Donne's 'Death Be Not Proud'. "One short sleep past, we wake eternally. And death shall be no more."
