It is a common saying in Igbo land that “isi nwa amadi adigh ato n’amba” (the head of a son of the soil is never buried outside the homestead). So too, that of a woman.
If, for any reason, the head, and by extension, the body could not be traced and retrieved for proper burial, his kinsmen (umu nna) would perform certain rites in his honour for his soul to rest in peace.
There are numerous circumstances that could prevent the body of a kinsman from being found: wars, plane crashes, drowning at sea, fire incidents, those who died in a kidnapper’s den, or are devoured by wild animals, etc.
Usually, no effort is spared to bring back home the body of a kinsman for burial, no matter how far or torturous the road to his place of demise.
I still recall when, as a little boy, my kinsman died at Azumini Ndoki in the present-day Ukwa East Local Government Area of Abia State.
Isuikwuato, where I come from, is about three hours away, thanks to the modern-day road network. Back then, motorable roads, where they existed, were few and far between.
One morning, some able-bodied young men from my community, armed with a bed-like contraption made of bamboo (we call it ‘nkpakara’), coffin was not in common use then, were dispatched to Azumini to bring home his body so he might rest in peace with his ancestors.
It must have been a torturous journey through bush paths, marshy farmlands, and many rivers to cross. For them, on foot, it must have been a journey of many nights and days.
When they came home bearing their burden on their heads, hearse was not common then, the entire village was eerily quiet, signifying that the grim reaper had struck.
As children, we were kept indoors until the burial was over. Children of nowadays would be struggling to feast their eyes on a body while lying in state. A taboo back in the day.
Whenever I remember this sad event, the story of Jacob in the Bible springs to my mind. When it became obvious to Jacob that his time on earth was drawing to a close, he instructed his sons thus: “I am about to be gathered to my people.
Bury me with my fathers in the cave in the field of Ephron in Canaan”, despite being in Egypt at the time of his death. (Genesis 49). The similarity in cultural practice between what obtains among the Jews and the Igbo about choosing the place of burial is quite striking and instructive.
In Igbo land, it is believed that unless rites of passage are performed for the repose of the soul of the dead, the spirit, call it ghost if you like, of such a person will not allow the living to rest.
Certain bizarre occurrences happen in the community that are attributed to such a spirit.
Every person who has lost a loved one knows they cannot have proper closure until the dead is buried.
The Bible tells us that when Cain murdered Abel, God himself told Cain that “the blood of his brother is crying to me from the ground. (Genesis 4).
So, the dead don’t die, and die. In other words, death as we know it is not a final bus stop for man.
Put in another form: Even the Cross is not a dead-end. But this offering is not about eschatology. So, we move on.
Chinua Achebe, in his inimitable poem Remembrance Day, had this to say: “Your proclaimed mourning Your flag at halfmast Your solemn face Your smart backward step and salute at the flowered foot of empty graves Your glorious words, none nothing will their spirit appease….. Therefore, fear them. Fear their malice, your fallen kindred wronged in death. Fear their blood feud, your fallen kindred wronged in death”
The Nigerian civil war ended over 50 years ago. I am not aware that ndi Igbo as a collective have carried out any rites of passage for our war dead.
Lest we forget, it was for our collective cause that they laid down their lives.
Could it be that our failure to appease their spirit is the reason why many bizarre occurrences have become the new normal in Igbo land?
Or are things that would have been regarded as “aru” or “nso-ani”; a terrible, unspeakable, abominable, atrocious act or behaviour, which in time past would have called for propitiation because they defile the land, not happening today without any person batting an eyelid?
Even when we shrug our shoulders at all about the unbecoming that are now becoming a way of life, we do so as individuals and retire to our respective homes with no collective resolve to bell the cat.
`Erimi, the proverbial umbilical cord that binds the Igbo nation together, which forbids the shedding of the blood of a kinsman, seems to have lost relevance. Or is observed in the breach, if at all.
Is it not about time we paused to ponder? When Okonkwo, the protagonist of Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, murdered a boy who called him father, was he not banished from the land?
Let us not write this off as fiction. Everyone knows that there is an undeniable intersection between real-life situations and art. Come to think about it, was Okonkwo’s fate any different from that of Cain?
It is time we found out why the abnormal is today wearing the toga of normality in our land. An Igbo proverb popularised by Chinua Achebe tells us that, “A man who does not know where the rain began to beat him cannot say where he dried his body”.
I am not a diviner.
That notwithstanding, I believe that if we appoint a date, which could morph into an annual ceremony, to honour those who shed their blood that we may live in dignity and security, we shall not be the worse for it.
I am not unaware that it is not only ndi Igbo that lost their sons and daughters in the war. There were countless deaths on both sides, no doubt, of soldiers, civilians: men, women, and children.
I am also aware that the Nigerian government sets a day aside every year to remember members of our armed forces who have paid the supreme sacrifice.
But what I am asking for is different. Or is it not the saying of our people that “okwa mba n’ebe n’olu n’olu” (the guinea fowl found in every locality cries in a peculiar tone).
That cultural differences exist is not in doubt. As ndi Igbo of Nigeria, we have a peculiar way of mourning our dead. Let us do just that.
Let me be clear that I am not suggesting in any way that we should abjure the Remembrance Day ceremony instituted by the federal government of Nigeria. Far be it from me. In my humble view, both events can exist side by side. They are not mutually exclusive; rather, they are complementary.
What I am asking for is not a novelty, in any case. I commend our kith and kin in Asaba across the Niger for erecting a remembrance arcade where the names of those who perished in the civil war are listed.
After the First World War, France exhumed the bodies of about 960,000 fallen soldiers scattered across the fields of Europe for reburial.
In 2024, Canada returned the remains of an unidentified soldier from the First World War and buried him at the Newfoundland National War Memorial, giving closure to families that had waited over a century for his homecoming.
After the genocide of 1994, Rwanda passed a law requiring dignified reburials of victims. These global precedents show that reburial is not only an act of respect for the dead and a cultural imperative but also serves to remind all of us of the horrors of armed conflict, which should be avoided as much as possible.
Credit:The Guardian