Yesterday was a market day. The Kuto Market is specially packed to the brim every 5 days. Humans pour out from different angles, moving helter-skelter. Since I started plying the route, I have grown attached to every of the market days. It meant more faces to stare at, moods to observe and thoughts to provoke.
Why I always looked forward to these days, unlike before, was that I knew I would always be in the taxi: providing comfort and shield against sweats and likely stampede that flow through each market day. Contrary to my very reserved self and curt friendliness, I derive pleasure in watching and simply staring into and around things and people. Any day I observe the rowdiness and civil chaos as the Taxi approaches the market junction, I blush and adjust my position.
Although it would mean the probability of getting to work later than appointed, I would enjoy the atmosphere, sight, appearances, and inaudible chatter, most especially. I would have the time to sit and stare into nothing in particular while enjoying the aforementioned and allow my mind to wander into an empty space, floating. Because it is always in the morning that the rowdiness causes much traffic, the air was always quite cool and little to no heat is encountered. The only downside, which is not so bad, is the faint or at times, pervading smell of the freshly swept stinking debris on the dividers; by the roadside, or in the large OGWAMA tank dedicated for such litters.
Sometimes, I wished I was not so abnormal as to enjoy the horrible smell. There are days I looked forward to that smell. Days I would hold my breath with palpitations and release as the taxi approached the large tank, only to be disappointed at the sense of an odour different from the one anticipated. At other times, I just appreciated whatever smell the junk threw at me. I have grown to recognize and appreciate that odour; the smell of trash, even in people.
I enjoyed the presence of people from all walks of life at the market yesterday, boisterous, with the appearance of energy.
Today, I join a number of souls to celebrate 365 days of the loss of vitality of a senior colleague, a boss. The Memorial service started with the sound of praise and worship. It felt like yesterday when tears were crawling up walls as the gentleman was laid to rest. I tried to peer out the slightest look of anguish from the faces I saw today, but none I could find. Perhaps, I did not search well. It has indeed been a year since the gentleman died and wails shook the very foundation of the hall we gathered in. That did not disturb the menu from being passed around at the end of the occasion. I still retain my unacceptance of sharing food in a gathering for a situation that is all but happy.
I have always believed that grief is not for the dead but for the living. Whether we cry for a moment or for eternity, it is for ourselves. No tears can be shed for the dead, for they are gone and can no longer appreciate life. And the tears we shed are never for the dead, but for our own lives, for the days yet spread before us, for the times not to be spent in the embrace and warmth of the one who has passed. The tears are all for our pity. We pity ourselves, how we move on and face the treacherous road. The anguish, pain, and ache we feel and express are in contemplation of how the morrow will be for us [without them]. We cry for our continued existence without them. For if it were laid before us, rolling pictures of how it would be without them; happy and fulfilling, with no glint of sorrow, how many would mourn or as much?
Right in the middle of the hymns [In Christ Alone…], when I was starting to appreciate the lyrics, this rogue child wandered out and distracted the flow. He should be nothing less than 6 years of age. And I began to wonder how a child this old could not appreciate the gathering, even if he was oblivious to the purpose. I thought that, except if it was a toddler or crawling babe, no human as tall as that child should be unaware of how to behave in certain situations. Shortly after, an adult who appeared to be his guardian strolled to the fore to usher him out of the room, with all smiles and over-pampering consideration.
Along the line, we sang a song that really had me thinking and questioning certain beliefs. The song, ‘Alleluia, ogo ni f’Oluwa; a’fijo iyin at’ope fun Baba; alaye ni o yin o b’otiye; alleluia, ogo ni f’Oluwa,’ made me question whether only the living [considering that we think being physically alive is the only way to be alive] can praise the Lord? It means we have confined God and worship, the perfect worship, to our sphere of existence alone. We think existence and performances start and finish with us, here on earth. In fact, we believe that the dead are no longer on earth, the earth being a physical space. However, by my understanding, we are in the least category of existence. We are subject to several bodily limitations. In the planes of existence [of life], we are on the lowest rung. So, I would assume that in fact, the dead people [I am not referring to the body in the casket. I am rather referring to their continued existence wherever they are] are more privileged to partake in a higher form of worship.
I mean, the difference between that dead person and I would be my body. I still possess a physical representation.
Perhaps, what that song is trying to say is that possessing a physical body capable of functioning is an advantage over those who do not or have stopped having it. Would it then mean that we consider ourselves superior to the dead? I quite understand that some of us consider death a bad phenomenon. Whatever the case, these thoughts took a moment of my time at the service and I shook them off when I was not getting any answers from myself. Better to enjoy the moment and flow with the popular song than wallow in some questionable territories.
Soon enough, the officiating minister took the stage and started preaching about Love. The moment came when another chord was struck. I am quite sensitive to raising questions. He put out a poser, ‘how will you be remembered, for good or evil?’
This took my mind to the officers I share office space with. Some two among them are fond of saying how nice and good a fellow was after his death simply because they or someone they know have benefited financially from the deceased. They in turn spite and say all manner of despicable words where the deceased never extended financial resources towards them or their loved ones, they call such people ‘ahun.’
Then came the question… what if I gave to people richly and at the same time involved in some dirty tricks unbeknownst to the world? Would it be satisfactory on my memorial, the words that I was a good person?
I shrugged it off anyway. I believe you will be praised or otherwise if you do according to the desires of those praising you. And by whatever indications, if there exists a judgment throne, no humans would be on the jury. Why should I then live for their praises? What if the larger percentage of the populace is impoverished in thoughts and desires?
The summary of what I gathered from that aspect of the minister’s admonition was that the number of us that gathered to remember the departed senior showed how well he lived. No! I do not concur. It simply showed how pleased we were with the view of his life we were privileged to see. I am as well sure that not everyone that came across the departed senior in his lifetime was pleased with the way he lived. We tend to pronounce people good or bad according to how well they met our needs, wants, or desires [in the very least].
These and many more ludicrous thoughts entertained me while I found my way through the throng back to my official duty, to witness more ramblings of how good a dead man was because of the help offered.
For me, it is always the spiteful hate directed at those whom they were not allowed to reap from, always!
Written by Ibidunni Omorilewa