Nigeria: We come to bury Abba Kyari, not to praise him

Mark Anthony: I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
Shakespeare – Julius Ceasar Act 3 Scene 2. [Poetry Foundation]

A disambiguation of similarities

Overnight, I read that the Chief of Staff to the Nigerian President, Abba Kyari, had passed on. Now, I was neither shocked nor moved by the news of his death, I did not know him. It was only recently that I realised there were many unrelated prominent Abba Kyaris in Nigeria. [The Guardian]

The one I was familiar with was a Brigadier Abba Kyari who was the governor of North Central State with the capital of Kaduna from 1967 to 1975, during Yakubu Gowon’s regime.

Being such a prominent member of President Muhammadu Buhari’s cabinet, with an extensive portfolio bordering on a megalomaniacal abuse of power, his loss to the government would be hard felt and as one would expect, hagiographies would be posted with reckless abandon to the praise of the man. One even dared suggest he sacrificed his life to the country. The jury would never reach a favourable decision on that assertion.

The hubris of prominence

Abba Kyari had succumbed to the Coronavirus having returned from Germany a few weeks before, he had underlying conditions that would have made him susceptible to the virus if he contracted it. Whether he quarantined himself after returning to Nigeria is unknown, but in a political setting of patronage and neopatrimonialism, I can imagine that courtesy calls and visits would have greeted his return from abroad.

In acknowledging his overarching influence in the federal government, I tweeted, “His Grand Eminence Cardinal Richelieu has departed the Court of Buhari II. All flags in the empire and dominions at half-mast.” [Twitter] There are ways in which one can say he is an unfortunate victim of systems he implemented, for in other times, he probably would have rushed abroad for medical attention, but borders were closed for medical tourism, he had to face the realities of Nigeria, albeit in a private hospital.

One of the legacies of his alleged abuse of office was out of an apparent power tussle with an erstwhile Minister of Health, he transferred procurement authority from the Ministry of Health to the Federal Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development in October 2018 and never reversed this edict even after a new minister was installed. Invariably, this would have hampered the Nigerian preparation for a pandemic virus as the one which took his life. [Punch]

Being honest to the dead

Now, I will not at any time speak ill of the dead, but that does not mean we should deny the truth of the dead also. The truth can be spoken without it coming across as ill or the lack of sympathy. What would do the most injustice to the memory of the dead is to lie about their lives and craft falsehoods to beatify their passing, quite undeservedly. In speaking of the dead, honesty must always be the best policy or one must keep their counsel in silence.

As we were taking in the news, some people posted anecdotes of meeting Abba Kyari, his friendship, his concern, his humour, his courtesy and much else featured in their recollections. In a way, outside of his official capacity, he seemed to be a likeable everyday human being. I would concede that even the evillest people to the public quite likely has private relationships and engagements that paint a different story of who they are.

Every Caesar has a Mark Anthony

In my view, I think those anecdotes are necessary, for as the person is dead, the book of accounting is closed and trial balance is done of all accounts of who they are, what they did, how they operated, who they affected, and it all comes together in a simple biography of the person, exemplifying a broad spectrum of humanity from virtue to villainy, from good to bad, from nice to nasty.

In that vein, I would recall the oratory of Mark Anthony at the execution of Julius Caesar, for there would always be a Mark Anthony of our times to eulogise a contemporary Julius Caesar and they will only ask for you to lend them your ears, you have every right to lend your ears or close your ears, but we must allow Mark Anthony the stage to speak, not so much about the ambition of Caesar, but the humanity of the Caesar he knew.

Abba Kyari was interred earlier today, but it would appear the essential social distancing rule was not adhered to at the graveside, I hate to think this folly might presage the death of some of the attendees and others they might come in contact with. It is as if they did not realise that the man in the coffin was proof that the Coronavirus should not be trifled with. May Allah grant repose to the soul of Abba Kyari, his deeds in his lifetime, however, are for the record of history.

The Johns at home in church

Home of praying hands

The Coronavirus named COVID-19 played a major part in moderating affection in our church community today. In exchanging the sign of peace, we took to clasping our hands in prayer fashion as the bowed to each other in a type of Indian subcontinental greeting, the dean having set us off with a greeting in Zulu and our response translating to ‘may it spread’, obviously, not the virus, but the message of peace.

At Communion, I usually dip the wafer in the cup, we were first required last week to ensure our fingers did not touch the wine. This time, the dipping was forbidden, we either drunk from the cup or just took the bread.

These limitations however did not trammel the homeliness of the church community, we fellowshipped with a full choir stall and quite familiar hymns that lent themselves to full-throated singing.

Home of long remembrance

The theme of home and the adventure of leaving the known for the unknown in search of a new home to prosper in linked the readings to the sermon, referring to Abram who became Abraham, the father of many nations and the visit of Nicodemus to Jesus in the search of understanding of the what, why, and purpose of the ministry of Jesus Christ.

More poignantly, it was the tale of two Johns that was of the greatest import to me, for after the Sung Eucharist, the Dean did in another short service say, ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust’.

The first John was born in Manchester became a Fellow of Pembroke College, Cambridge, and rose to the prebendary of St Paul’s Cathedral. He was however burnt at the stake for his Church of England faith, though purported for crimes against Mary Tudor who in her reign espoused Catholicism by persecuting reformers and adherents of Anglicanism. I wonder if presumed heretics of that day were burnt to ashes or simply made to suffer to death with a fiery end.

Home of today’s internment

The John today was a banker, a schools inspector, and master of a freemason lodge with an interest in freemason histories over the centuries. His ashes were interred in the cathedral Remembrance Garden, he had passed on in November, after which were church events of a memorial service in December and today, his family brought his mortal remains to the church for burial. I had never before witnessed a post-cremation interment, the solemnity of it along with an apparent absence of immediate family participation in the ceremony besides the laying of the flowers.

The one burial I fully witnessed, back in August 1977, had family, relations and friends pour handfuls of earth over the coffin before graveyard workers shovelled earth over the coffin. The little box or urn of ashes was laid in the ground hardly 2 feet deep and once the priest sprinkled on earth as part of the liturgy, the verger shovelled on the earth and covered the urn.

Home in church now

We left for refreshments whilst the family reflected there for a moment. The cycle of life in the church which has seen births, baptisms, confirmations, consecrations, the banns, marriages, and a few deaths remind us of our mortality and the bigger community of the church where whether hale and hearty, infirm and weak, or dearly departed, we continue in the respect and fellowship with each other, in communion or remembrance.

Indeed, the church is a place you can call home.

Thought Picnic: You Only Die Once

Knowing my mortality

I came close to appreciating my mortality when just under 5 years ago, on being diagnosed with a form of skin cancer, I was advised that the possible outcomes were anything between 5 weeks at worst and survival.

I am still here, but careful to keep a close eye on my health and possibilities I have for living much longer than I could have envisaged.

One fact I am always aware of is my vulnerability, and though I do as much to live as someone living rather than someone who is dying, the questions of life and death persist.

Planning for that end

I have lost friends, cousins and uncles, too many gone long before their time due to all sorts of circumstances that leaves one both saddened and fortunate to still be here.

There is a need to plan for that eventuality, probably write a will, decide where one wants to be buried and make the adequate arrangements before time, and prepare people for it by making that final welfare a celebration rather than a sorrowful passing.

I would love to do some things before I go though, the earth is a beautiful place, much of which I would still love to see. I dream and I hope, then get to live those amazing dreams one way or the other, there is no doubt that I have been blessed.

Where to rest in peace

Last year, I spent a week in Walsall where I was born and there was some unfinished business about that visit. I wanted to go to the Anglican Church there and find out about what it takes to get a place to be buried. It is far from my ancestral home but it is the place where I came into this world and I have a strong connection with that idea.

Death is nothing to be afraid of, whilst life is something to be enjoyed to the full. You only die once and this is something I have decided to think about on the 5^th Dying Matters Awareness Week.

Thought Picnic: The Awl in the Heart of the Old Owl

The owl as his friends

I love cartoons, something about them excites the imagination, tickles the child in you and offers you a reality you can never think possible and a recovery that is just too incredible within which can be concealed lessons, morals, tenets and interesting ideas about life – but that is the world of cartoons.

This old owl seeing that his days were ending, called his close friends to the clearing to offer some advice. The waited in rapt attention and he spoke with a voice that oscillated between joyful and sorrowful. Joyful that they had come and sorrowful that he might soon leave.

His message was clear without being explicit; the fellowship of the owl can only be maintained if they all worked together. They were all friends of the owl but not everyone knew each other.

His voice

He spoke of a treasure, an ideal and a burden, something to share, something to aspire to and something to bear, they needed to talk together so that what was to share did not go spare, they needed to aspire to did not go haywire and most importantly what if they chose to bear the burden together will not be too dear for all.

But two friends hoping to steal a match on the others jumped for the treasure unsettling the owl that was now under pressure and the owl fell breaking his neck in the fall.

Pushed under the bus

As the soul of the owl wandered off into the bright light, he was saddened and fearful that his wizen old self left in the clearing below will go to vultures because if they had worked together, the burden will be lighter, even if the ideal were yet unreal and the treasure was small.

However, the time had gone for the owl to ascertain the depth of the friendship he thought he had, the great doorway beckoned as what was left behind was there for whatever and whoever to finish that story.

The end.

Thought Picnic: The Chronicles of the Dead

Plans for journeys

As I got up this morning, I felt I needed to get out if the weather was fine enough and fine a place to meditate. Over the last few months, I have done serious mileage on my bicycle, the round-trip to church on Sundays is about 26 kilometres, maybe more, but it rarely bothers me, there are days that I have done close to 40 kilometres.

However, today, my ride to Zandvoort would have been 28 kilometres but in my quest to follow signposts for bicycle paths that lead to dead-ends, detours and strange places, I probably did close to 40 kilometres on my way out before I finally reached my destination.

A promise fulfilled

Before I left Amsterdam, I found I would be riding past the Saint Barbara Cemetery, I was last there on the 8^th of February 2010 when I attended the burial service of my dear friend Dick van Galen Last, had an idea of where he was buried but never saw the burial or the burial plot itself because it would have been too emotional for me and I had to get to hospital for what turned out to be my last chemotherapy session.

So, I stopped by to pay my respects and I just could not find the location. I made for the cemetery office to ask about the location of the burial plot and they produced what one might call the register of the dead.

Cemetery management

Nothing was computerised, his name appeared in cursive handwriting in the book, with his age; he died 8 days short of his 58^th birthday and the coordinates of where he was buried was noted.

The clerk who also doubles as a craftsman and many other things around the cemetery then checked the layout of cemetery on a map and after donning on some heavy-duty boots, lead me to the grave site.

As we walked up on of the avenues, he hand-pulled a ground moving digger, probably used to dig graves, just big enough to ride in but also small enough to be manoeuvred by a strong man too.

The first location we got to did not have the grave, I suspect certain graves have prominent headstones and then cards behind the headstone to indicate others sharing the allotment.

At his grave

Eventually, after about a 5-minute search, he found Dick’s grave, a nice marble headstone with his name and the account of dates as each person’s portion of the expanse of eternity gets carved into stone at graveyards – the date of birth and the date of death – the history of great men is not written in cemeteries, rather it is in the memories of those who return and in books far away.

I do not know how long I spent at Dick’s grave but as I muttered my thanks for his being my friend the words of Jesus came to my mouth – I am the resurrection – at which point I knew that death is simply part of the journey of the soul in the unlimited and unfathomable extents of eternity.

Thinking beyond ourselves

Time is an amazing thing, even stars we see in the night sky might well have long disappeared but if they are thousands or millions of light-years away, we will never know if they are still out there however their light travelling to us through the amazing universe signifies there was a source for the light we now see.

So do all those grave stones with the bones beneath the earth, the people laid there once walked the surface of the earth with passions and failings like you and I have.

As I left the cemetery, I thanked the clerk who was busy trimming the hedges, you then realise even the dead need caring for or else the cemetery will become a jungle and the thickets we’ll have to cut through to see our loved ones would have just reflected very badly on the living.

A sense of morbid anxiety

Peanuts in service terms

The other day, I was out with a friend to the Ghanaian restaurant in The Hague called Swingin’ Safari and it was quite an experience we would never want to repeat.

For the first time ever, we found that the service could be appalling and that was not just for us but to others too, it appeared the waitresses felt they were doing us favours by taking our orders and messing the orders with without apologising for their mistakes and more.

When it came to the bill, the brazen effrontery of it all was evident when one of them demanded a tip with the statement everyone gives tips when they pay.

I am probably generous to fault when it comes to tips but these people deserved nothing, weaknesses in the system were exposed very much compared the brigandage of the African Kitchen restaurant that we had long deserted in Amsterdam for a 50-mile journey to The Hague.

A present market space

These exotic places are watering holes for ethnically diverse groups from Africa and West Africa in particular, so it was with a sense of mirth that I picked up a leaflet advertising Multicultural funeral insurance – Yes, it would have translated to that.

Even after life there are ways I suppose we want our bodies to be treated and somehow it is best that matter is taken care of before someone else is landed with unexpected responsibilities, but in most cases, these events are unexpected.

The bill for a friend’s burial came to just under 3,000 Euros and that did not include the reception afterwards – a place for a memorial basically does not come cheap.

A background feeling

It is hard enough having medically-induced vivid dreams that cast one as the gatekeeper to the afterlife, but I have tried as much as possible until today not to observe closely the advertisement hoardings that hang on the pillars of the Amsterdam Central Station.

Some company is trying to persuade us all to prepare for our funerals, they are drumming up business in ways that made it look like one were preparing for holidays.

Do not forget your travel insurance it seemed to say, the travel insurance to the great beyond and suddenly you have a sense of morbid anxiety, hopefully not accompanied with a last laugh for untimely foreboding.

Nigeria: Paying the dead and billing the living

We mourn the Pa

Ijebuman a fellow blogger highlighted in his blog today two issues that caught my eye before I went to work this morning.

A well-respected (read, I don’t even know the man from bingo) Yoruba leader died recently and anyone who had two feet trundled to his residence like they all do, to belabour the grieving survivors with condolences.

In fact, it is customary to find that the survivors are pre-occupied with the entertainment of dignitaries than having time to recollect their thoughts, their memories and their affections of their dearly departed.

Pa Abraham Adesanya who has through his works and deeds acquired a rarer title that ranks in precedence above the proletariat chief or even the now common Otunba that everyone seems to have, is to be revered and buried in incredulity.

Sir Who and Dame What

Before, I get to that point, I have also noticed that certain Nigerians are exhibiting titles of Sir and Dame – the last time those were legally acquired in Nigeria was before 1963 when Nigeria was not yet a republic.

It makes me wonder who is now conferring knighthoods (Sir Mike Mbama Okiro) and damehoods (Dame Patience Jonathan) on Nigerians and how long we have to wait before someone ends up with a peerage. I would suppose these are Catholic orders of chivalry and I doubt they are to be presented as personal titles.

Ijebus do big burials

Pa Adesanya is an Ijebuman and whilst the Ijebus are quite thrifty and enterprising, it is common knowledge that you cannot borrow anything from an Ijebuman for business, education or investment but you will earn the best lines of credit to conduct a burial.

With that in mind, it is probably not surprising that his burial would cost a whopping N150 million ($1.3 million, £670,000 – Ijebuman’s estimation) - that could buy immortality.

Now, anyone has a right to spend as much as they want to ensure they have properly put a man 6-feet under and done that securely; what is irksome is this is really taxpayer’s money, 6 state governments in the South-West of Nigeria are contributing $216,000 each for his burial; the electorate probably have no say in deciding if this is ethical, legal, legitimate and right.

The few in orgy

As the selectively invited cavort in an orgy of festivities celebrating the life of this great man that would last 5 days from Monday the 19^th of May till Friday the 23^rd of May when he would be committed, one could almost say the cacophony of the troupes of well-heeled professional mourners might just end up being a ceremony that would wake the dead and end the party.

The man who suffered such poor health for the last 4 years of his life probably might have found better use before his death for that large sum of money and probably he would have offered himself for cryogenic storage till some medical breakthrough had been developed to restore both his health and youth.

But we cannot afford to celebrate the living when the ceremonies of the dead attract more fanfare, pomp and pageantry.

Frankly, I do not understand my people at all, but as far as they are concerned, they have their priorities right, you have to bury the dead well and no expense should be spared.

Adedibu lives

Ijebuman goes on to wonder how much would be set aside for Lamidi Adedibu who I wrote about last year, a man beyond the law and a complete menace to societal calm but perversely revered.

He took ill recently and the governor of Oyo State paid his medical bills up to the tune of N5 million, and on the matter of one of the senators of the state not putting forward any finances towards his hospital bill; he boasted that the three senators representing Oyo State were all from his room, such is the influence of the man.

Then a group of supposedly enlightened people meeting in a suburb, north of London, as Adedibu Beneficiaries in the UK – It really does beggar belief – claim because of his recovery, God still wants to use Adedibu, I am speechless.

The changing ceremonies of death

The modern funeral

Having not attended a funeral for 31 years, I never knew what to expect of a church service or the committal at the crematorium.

I soon found out that coffins do not get hoisted on the shoulders anymore; a special trolley/gurney was used to take the deceased to the altar.

Powderhouse Crematorium

After the church service we drove to the crematorium in a funeral cortège a few miles to the other end of town where my warped imagination could not help but notice the crematorium was on Powderhouse Lane, I would not have believed it if I had not seen it.

My fellow passengers in the car did not catch on to my thinking until later, it was just slightly less direct from being Ash Road, but the powder of the ash was what got me – one almost expected John Cleese to jump out from behind a tombstone but the solemnity of the occasion bored down that set of silly thoughts.

To earth or to ashes

I had never been to a crematorium and recently whilst chatting to a Dutch funeral director he opined that more people prefer to be buried than be cremated because they want a place for a memorial.

Whilst a crematorium and its grounds can offer places for remembrance and contemplation for loved ones, it looked like a poor imitation of the traditional cemetery – some innovation like remembrance walls and so on just looked so different.

The suddenness of ceremony

I also felt that a crematorium does not lend itself fully to the ceremony of ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust where everyone completely breaks down, the deepest emotions was probably at the eulogy where my pocket square absorbed secretions from my tear ducts.

I also learnt that wake-keeping ceremonies were more an Irish think than English, some even end with drinks and fights, I have never really understood the Nigerian version where the children stay up all night – it is stressful enough grieving for the dead.

We were part of a conveyor belt of commercial activity and so soon after the curtains closed we were ushered out to see the family flowers and commiserate with the family – like a doctor’s surgery, the NEXT sign must have lit up for those after and this was to go on till dusk.

We later retired to the village pub for drinks and some food, it was there after I had expressed my views about a crematorium on Powderhouse Lane that I was told the name of the funeral director is Mr. Cook.

Surely, someone was pulling my leg, but the truth is always just what it is – sometimes incredible.

A rest but no arrests

The dead bury the dead

When Jesus said let the dead bury their dead, one can be forgiven for not fully understanding the import of that statement.

There is however a whole mine of wisdom in that saying of which I might just be able to mine a gem or two. I can safely say we are moving one from the cult of the dead and are just fascinated by the Egyptology and the pyramids.

The great discovery announced a few weeks ago is not a king’s burial chamber but the preparation room for embalmment.

Sometime ago, I offered advice to a couple one of whom had to fulfil a set number of years or residency as part of resolving an immigration issue. Having lost his father, there was the compelling reason to go and bury his father as one would in Africa.

However, fulfilling that would mean losing the relationship and a possible loss of the right to return. So, some inspiration came to me in the guise of having the man parcel some sand to be poured over the grave in Africa on burial.

This would fulfil the ceremony of pouring sand on the coffin at burial and this the ability to continue sojourning here till the days are fulfilled for gaining the entitlement to the right of abode.

In context, one should not sacrifice one’s future well-being in satisfying the traditions of burying the dead.

Duties done

So, we see that Slobodan Milosevic was laid to rest in his village on Saturday without his son or widow attending. As it transpired, the suspension of the arrest order in Yugoslavia allowing them to attend Milosevic’s funeral had ropes attached.

The son did visit the Netherlands to collect the body but did not travel with his father’s body to Belgrade, the widow however, stayed in Moscow.

I could very well say that husband and wife has probably said their goodbyes long before the death occurred, the son however, performed his duties to the best of his ability.

What one cannot argue with is that a leader who has happened upon some misfortune as Milosevic did is not without friends and they have done him proud in terms of his interment.

Friends who excel kin

Even so, I remember, Lady Oyinkan Abayomi (reference in German) died in 1987, a spinster but a mentor and foster mother to many who are of repute in Nigeria.

She has more luminaries attend her funeral than many her age who would have had great grand-children and generations of relations.

Basically, kinship does not guarantee a worthy burial. By happenstance, I met a funereal stones salesman who said a lot less people are taking the cremation option because they miss the opportunity to visit a location where their loved one is buried.

My religion your grievance

Then again, China and the Koreas are always given to extreme histrionics when Junichiro Koizumi the Prime Minister of Japan visits the Yakusuni Shrine where the Japanese war dead are buried and worshipped as gods.

It so happens that some of the war dead includes those who warred against China and Korea, occupying those countries with a iron fist and committing despicable war atrocities.

However, this shrine was founded in 1869 and hence there are more war dead honoured there than those that give China and the Koreas such umbrage.

This worshipping of the dead as spirits is part of the principle of Shintoism which is a major religion in Japan.

The Japanese cannot for the sake of the few then condemn the shrine to extinction or excommunication from the Shinto faith.

Though, I am not sure there is a rite to expunge the spirits of men later adjudged to be wrong in their earthly life from a Shinto shrine.

It is almost the equivalent of saying because evil kings were mentioned in the Bible no one should read the Bible again – now, that would set fire to the Catherine wheels.

Basically, the Japanese have buried their dead and draw strength from their service in Shintoism whilst the Chinese and the Koreans are still haunted by the memories of the evil dead who have advanced to greater things of divine worship.

It is a crazy world out there; I want no part of it.