Meals at burials

The uneasiness and tension that come with knowing of the death of a loved one are emotions I hope not to experience frequently in my lifetime.

Perhaps it’s because the closest person I’ve lost to death was my elderly paternal grandmother that I have an intense aversion to attending burial ceremonies. For me, the entire process, from the lying-in-state to the lowering of the once lively body into the grave and covering it with soil, as well as the tomb design adorned with flowers, is something I find exceedingly difficult to cope with.

After the funeral proceedings are concluded, my personal nightmares begin. I find myself unable to look at my own shadow without apprehension. Sleeping alone becomes a daunting task, and I become overly anxious about even the slightest movements in my room. It almost feels as if the spirit of the departed is still lingering.

During these moments, I develop a strong aversion to rats and their activities. The overall experience can be quite distressing, and it has led me to make a conscious effort to avoid attending as many funerals as possible.

“Are you responsible for Mama Olabisi’s death?” my mother curiously inquired the day we lost a neighbor to electrocution. I was in bed with her to pass the night after the burial since I couldn’t bring myself to sleep alone, despite being an adult. Surprisingly, she didn’t treat me kindly at all. Instead, my mother meanly sent me back to my room, and it turned into a night of what felt like a spiritual struggle with an imaginary ghost until dawn. I woke up drenched in sweat, with the experience weighing heavily on my mind.
 

Another aspect of my burial-related syndrome is that I often find myself being the most emotional member of the audience when the life and times of the deceased are recounted. It’s not unusual for me to shed more tears than even the bereaved family. 😂😂😂

Interestingly, I don’t always need to have a personal connection with the deceased to shed tears at a burial. I can be that emotional and empathetic. At one point, though, I started to worry that the emotional struggles I face in the aftermath of a funeral could take such a toll on me that they might affect my health or well-being in the long run.😩😩😩😩

In addition to my other burial-related idiosyncrasies, I tend to avoid eating at funerals, especially when the deceased is a younger person. At the last funeral I attended, I even refused to partake in the puff-puff (a local dough snack) served during the wake-keeping service.

I was overwhelmed with tears, my eyes were red, and my nose kept dripping mucus continuously, which made my taste buds completely abandon me.

It was puzzling to see others like me, “town-criers” as you put it, sobbing and munching on the snacks provided at the burial. I often wonder who can eat and cry simultaneously; it almost seems like some people are just pretending.😏😏😏😏😏

To add to the complexity of the situation, in the midst of the somber moment, there was a commotion that erupted from some corners of the tent regarding who had been served food and who hadn’t. 🙆🙆🙆🙆

This annoyed me more than it would amuse me. 🤦🤦🤦🤦

You mean some sons and daughters of eve would come to a burial to supposedly console the bereaved only to be fighting over food?

Like seriously?

If I was even the deceased I’ll just begin to scare them in their sleep.

Like, what effrontery?

“Be that as it may, dear Parents (here goes the closest people to me right about now) please grow veeeeeeeery old before tasting death.”

Help me to help my phobia, so that I don’t end up insanely when it’s time to lower your aged remains to mother earth.

#titirants#