A Fictional Sequel by Fuvi Kloku
I returned to Ankpoe with a mission: to bring my host, Mr. Akplekor, to the United States for urgent medical care. After months of advocacy, paperwork, and prayers, I had secured everything, visa, hospital clearance, and full sponsorship. Every cedi, every dollar, accounted for. All he had to do was board the plane.
But fate, that old trickster, had other plans.
The night before our departure, as I rehearsed my speech of gratitude and double-checked our travel documents, Mr. Akplekor quietly slipped away in his sleep. No drama. No farewell. Just a gentle exit, as if to say, “My son, I’ve seen enough. Let the ancestors take it from here.”
I was devastated. But I stayed. Out of respect, out of love, and perhaps out of disbelief. I told myself, “Let me honor him properly before I return.”
Then came the surprise.
The funeral, I was told, would be held… in three months.
Three months?
I blinked. “Three days?” I asked.
“No, no,” they said, “Three months. We must prepare. It must be fitting.”
Fitting? This was the same man who, just a year ago, couldn’t get a single neighbor to donate money for his treatment. The same man whose roof leaked and whose cough echoed unanswered through the village square. But now that he was gone, the entire community had found its voice,and its wallet.
Suddenly, there were committees. Subcommittees. WhatsApp groups. A special funeral cloth was commissioned, black and white with golden Adinkra symbols, bearing his name and the words “A Life Well Lived.” Every family member and neighbor was measured for it. Even the ones who hadn’t spoken to him in years were now arguing over who would be in charge of the donations.
One cousin suggested hiring the services of a premier brass ensemble renowned for its ceremonial grandeur and cultural prestige. Another proposed a an expensive commemorative brochure with glossy photos. Someone whispered about hiring a drone to capture aerial footage of the procession. The newly appointed family elder solemnly instructed the children to construct a dignified structure worthy of housing their father’s remains for the grand funeral . I was stunned. A whole house, for the dead?
When I challenged the idea, one uncle calmly replied, “It’s our custom.” That only fueled my disbelief. I snapped, “How many of these “mausoleum-styled” houses actually exist in this community?” Silence. Thick, awkward, telling silence. Ah, so that was the plan. They assumed the obroni would bankroll that fantasy too.
I stood frozen, disbelief washing over me. So this is it, I thought. In this place, the dead dine and slumber in homes far better than those of the living.
I smiled, not out of joy, but out of that peculiar Ghanaian blend of irony and affection. They are a people who mourn with grandeur, even if they neglect with silence. They love their ancestors so much, they sometimes forget to love them while they’re still breathing.
So I packed my bag, left a donation for the funeral fund, and told them I’d return when the drums were ready. After all, I had already said my goodbye , to the man, not the ceremony.
Teaser for the Next Sequel :
In the next installment: I returned to Ankpoe for the “fitting” funeral, which was delayed for almost a year ! Yes one year ! I discovered that the dead in this community may rest in peace, but the living are still negotiating the debt of the funeral . Stay tuned for “The Funeral At Ankpoe.”
