Paying respects to a colleague

Making the Journey

Yesterday was devoted to one main activity: bidding a dear and well-liked former colleague a befitting farewell. As the situation was, the only thing to do was to pay our respects and honour him.

His wife had advised in an email response to my indicating an intention to attend the obsequies that the best station to alight from was Poulton-le-Fylde, as it was the closest to Carleton Crematorium.

Leaving home early, I initially thought of going to Blackpool and then, closer to the time, making my way to Poulton-le-Fylde. However, after exchanges with another colleague who was changing trains at Preston (Lancs), I alighted at Preston and ended up at Brucciani’s Café, where the serving of Eggs Benedict left much to be desired.

Gathering Together

The rendezvous at the station later on saw the meeting of five more colleagues. We set off to a nearby pub, some steeling themselves for the occasion with a tipple.

Another colleague joined us there, and he drove us to the crematorium. As we got out of the car, the funeral cortège was coming up behind us.

A Celebration of Life

The gathering was a humanist celebration. The venue was filled such that there was standing room only; I took to leaning on the wall for support.

Such fantastic stories were told of him, including a very moving tribute from his wife. Many women cried, and even some men cried like boys. He was held in such great affection and deeply loved. A sombre, yet celebratory farewell it was.

The Reception Wake

The reception after the funeral, termed a wake, took place at Carleton Bowling Club. I did note, though, that we had barely exited the chapel when the next hearse had arrived, and there was going to be a last one after that, each session given 45 minutes. A commodification of death, in no uncertain terms.

We got to talk to friends, relations, his wife, and his mother, all appreciative of us making time to attend this farewell.

The Journey Home

Three of us left after dark to catch the trains, a 19-minute walk from the reception. We arrived just in time to board a train to Preston.

I changed at Preston for a train to Manchester, and it was on that train that a conductor not only checked my ticket but also asked for my railcard. He then said, "However you got that railcard, what's your secret?" Not the challenge I expected, but I was also being paid a compliment. It took a full month to be officially recognised as a senior citizen through my Senior Railcard.

An Unexpected Conversation

Then, guess what? The young chap sat beside me, fascinated by the chatter between the conductor and me, struck up a conversation. He was just about to commence his A Levels, attending a boarding school in Cumbria.

His intended career path was history, and I shared with him what I did. He had been in Cape Town last year with his school's rugby team, and he spoke of South Africa in such glowing terms.

What did we not cover before I disembarked at Manchester Oxford Road Station? Chance encounters making a journey and a day end on a jolly note.

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Thought Picnic: We are at peak mourning

Alright, here we are

The British expression of the veneration for the dead is quite fascinating to watch, for in the 8 days since the passing of Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth II, the pomp, pageantry, ceremony, and performance that has greeting this period of mourning before her funeral has plumbed excesses rarely seen anywhere.

If the Queen were a Roman Catholic, she would be well on her way to beatification long before she has been interred. We are suffocated with coverage that could abandon common sense for sheer mass hysteria and uncontrolled genuflection.

Indeed, there is more grief for the immediate family of the Queen, and for the nation, is the realisation that a lady who has defined a major part of our national life is no longer with us. For her service and duty, we gather to pay our respects and honour her.

What I well see

Having great influences of another culture in my upbringing, a death at 96 is not considered sorrowful, rather a celebration of first a long life and then congratulations to their survivors for outliving their parents. I find myself at confluence and conflict as both my British and Nigerian influences wrestle with the spectacle that greets me.

At one time, I did think of travelling down to London for the laying-in-state, but after reviewing the rules and the prospect of being in interminably long queues for the prospect of a fleeting moment of bowing before a laden catafalque, I advised myself of the better participation in witnessing the civil and religious royal proclamations, along with signing the book of condolence at Manchester Cathedral.

For the living to be

I never had the occasion to meet the Queen, not that it was ever an ambition or desire, except for others who might if the situation presented itself would celebrate it. If perchance, one did meet with royalty, maybe there would be some interaction and conversation that in this case is absent from the dead, except if one were to indulge in necromancy.

My counsel informs that this performative exercise in public grief is hardly a front seat row and more an acquiescence of the establishment to gauge the popularity of the institutions that undergird it, as there is an enumerator somewhere seeking to use the numbers to convey a point.

To king I vow

All this does not make me any less a monarchist, I am quite comfortable with the unimaginative consistency of a hereditary constitutional monarchy that puts the excesses of political chicanery in check as much as it can without interfering with the system, than to radically change the system to a republic. What we need is a reform of our voting system to be more representative of the electorate and the less use of patronage to pack the House of Lords full of chums, plutocrats, and influence peddlers.

The gift of television gives a wider view and where opinion is grating, I can mute the volume.  As for the new royal household, it is a work in progress and all the preparations for this event are still left to some cack-handed courtiers who by trying to maintain intrigue and mystique almost always leave the royals caught rather flatfooted. Before I put pen to paper to reveal character flaws that were once rumoured of.

Thought Picnic: The farewell to Remi Lagos

To wit

Yesterday, I was persuaded of a simple thing, to do what friends are supposed to do without much prompting even though it took a while before I appreciated the basic “Be there for me” message.

Firstly, anytime I hear of anyone dying of cancer, my own vulnerability is expressed so vividly to me in stark reality that I become more conscious of how lucky I am, how blessed I have been and the so many things I needs must do before the end comes by reason of the cycle of life. It is for a reason that I was spared, I should make it count even if my folly tends to stupid fatalism at times.

Signs and directions

I was invited to attend a requiem which I only really finally decided to attend a few hours before and so I prepared and made for the venue. On getting to station nearest to the venue, I realised my bearings were not as sure as they should be and even though I got my navigator out to help the problem was the main roads did not have signs; as if visitors were just expected to know which road was which.

In circumstances like that, the smart thing to do is find a café and order both a coffee and ask for directions. Opposite, Golders Green station was a café offering free WiFi which also happened to be Persian. The cakes and sweet things as checked my love-handles; I just had a café latte and a coconut biscuit before asking for how to get to the Golders Green Crematorium.

The estimated trekking time was 9 minutes from the station, if I knew where I was going to but even that did not seem to be sign-posted from the station or maybe I was not observant enough. I finally, saw the signpost at the turn off into Hoop Lane and what a busy road it was. As I arrived, my friend was outside we hugged and then I was introduced before I was ushered into the sanctuary.

New realisation

The sanctuary had 5 funerals scheduled and ours was the fourth of the day. When I settled down the coffin was brought in to a chanted mantra – a revelation – in fact, many revelations, I was attending a Buddhist funeral in the midst of a majorly ethnic community that comprised mostly of Nigerians. Yes, to all the questions you might have.

Then we were welcomed and the whole proceedings were explained to us before the religious service began with solemn chants and the ringing of bells.

The eulogy spoke of an amazing wonderful lady whose life was a free spirit, full of excitement and its complexities blazing a trail that mentored, touched and refreshed others with creativity and buzz – for all the sadness we might have felt, her story was one of joie de vive, humour, laughter and great fun – I felt this was one person I would have liked to meet and know.

The service ended with the music of Frank Sinatra – My Way; the anthem if there was one of the unique, non-conformist, one of a kind and different person whose life can only be celebrated as one well lived a life worthy of emulation in the many amazing things she did.

A life well lived

At the reception, I learnt more about the lady who came to be known as Remi Lagos from the eclectic mix of friends from all around the world unencumbered by the strictures of myopic sententiousness that sometimes becomes people of our heritage or those who are indigenously non-Western, she never did the conventional not in life and not now in death.

It was reaffirmed to me that above all else people and relationships matter more than beliefs, creeds, traditions or customs – the daring and freedom to be ourselves is at first the greatest love of all and its expression liberates us to cultivate and nurture friendships even strangely long after we have departed.

Remi Lagos lives on in the fond memories recalled about her and in the light of that, I made new friends too.

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.

Seeing Dick Off

The events for today

I had to prepare for two events today and made them fit in without either running into the other, Dick, my friend, was to be buried in the morning and I was having chemotherapy in the afternoon.

My preparations were for both but that for the hospital was not as elaborate, taking a flask of tea around for hours would not be that nice.

I arrived at the Saint Barbara Cemetery and signed in my name, I was recognised by a few people but this was a big crowd, probably 300, maybe more, of all ages and races to bid Dick a final farewell.

We all gathered in the chapel and there was just about enough room to stand, the chapel was filled and brimming when the pallbearers arrived with Dick’s body.

The service

For 65 minutes we heard lots of music, some classical, some contemporary and even a few from Francophone Africa, probably Senegal, his tastes were broad and varied all signifying the types of music Dick loved.

In that time too, many speeches were given by friends and colleagues all through Dick’s life, I was lost in the whole thing, my language ability was demonstrably so poor that I did not catch the humorous bits, but it was all well and good that we all had the opportunity to see him off.

After the funeral service which was the speeches and the music he was taken to the cemetery to be buried and though I walked up close to where he was finally committed to earth, I did not go to the grave, I was conscious of the fact that I had to make away for my hospital appointment and also aware that I might be able to handle the emotions of dust-to-dust.

Farewell

So, once the closest relations had paid their respects and started to walk out of the cemetery, I left too not being able to attend the reception which was soon after the ceremony.

One summer day, I will go in search of the resting place in remembrance of my wonderful and dear friend. Goodbye Dick, farewell.

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.