Thought Picnic: They are never dead in dreams

We are touched at all times

In conveying my sympathises at the passing of a loved one, I strive for a form of words that hope to give comfort and succour in addressing irreparable loss. Part of the cycle of life is in the record of the birth, the living, and the death of people interweaving generations and leaving their marks in the lives of the persons they have impacted.

Impact on an individual basis is fundamentally significant from a miscarriage in the short existence of foetus to the passing of a matriarch or patriarch wizen with age as eras turn to epochs of history and genealogy. Grief is an expression that lives in our humanity.

When I condole in words to the effect that in the passing of someone, they have passed in the memories and recollections of experiences, fondness, and love, things we remember of them that are now forever crystallised in reminiscences, I believe there is some truth in that sentiment.

In dreams and memories

On my blog, I remember anniversaries and birthdays, I write tributes, maybe not so much eulogies. There are many things I do not understand, of what might be or not be of the afterlife, I do sometimes wonder if in my passing something of an eternal consciousness that could be a remnant of my lived existence can review the things said of me. I would not know if the people dear to me that I have lost can read of my fondness for them, even for those I failed to cherish enough until they were gone.

The Yoruba would eulogise the dead and rather than decline into the fortuitousness of the termination of life, we move on to another phase and of the dead, we look to meet in dreams or bump into them in places where our minds are given to the suggestion that a reincarnation has placed our loved one in another place.

Resurrecting utter discomfort

I sometimes wonder about what would have happened to the people of Jerusalem who experience the resurrection of the dead from their tombs when the earthquake struck at the death of Jesus Christ on the cross. It probably would not have been a comforting sight to suddenly see a known dead relative alive and interacting with you.

⁵¹ Then, behold, the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom; and the earth quaked, and the rocks were split, ⁵² and the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised; ⁵³ and coming out of the graves after His resurrection, they went into the holy city and appeared to many. [Matthew 27:51-53]

It remains a mystery for which there might be a revelation in due course. I have dreams and many of them are vivid, the recesses of my mind folding the landscapes of times past into the tapestry of the present continuous.

Dream a little dream

I create a theatre of dramatis personae who have never met in life making conversation and interacting in my dreams. A subconscious part of me recognises these people are no more alive, but in my dreams, I can live the impossible and not be overwhelmed by the incredible.

Maybe, the things we do for the dead are not essentially for the dead but are part of the coping mechanisms of the living. We who remain need to manage the complexities of the presence and the absence of those who were integral to our life experiences. We may not have our transfiguration moments, but when Jesus brought Moses and Elijah into the sight of Peter, James, and John, you knew that the stuff of dreams is an exposition that is not bounded by the strictures of time, manner, or space. [Wikipedia – the Transfiguration of Jesus]

Our dearly departed and not really gone, they remain alive in the fond memories we have of them. That is also a celebration of their lives in us.

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 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.