When my father was laid to rest last November, I never read my tribute. When the Master of Ceremony (MC) asked if he should put my name on the speakers’ list, I declined, for private reasons.
The MC and mourners did not get where I was coming from. But I reasoned that, through action and service, I had told my father everything he needed to hear from a loving son.
Besides, burial ceremonies have tight schedules. There is so much to say and so little time ... I remember during one burial several years ago, a son who had a testy relationship was cut short by the elders just as he got into the meat of his eulogy.
What’s more, in my neck of the woods, mourners hang on to every word one says in a eulogy. And, sometimes — figuratively speaking — you can be hanged because of your words. In Luoland, eulogies are akin to walking on thin ice in razor-sharp heels. You can’t talk ill of the dead … or the living.
Though the word eulogy refers to a writing or speech that highly praises someone or something; Marc Antony — from the play Julius Caesar — perceives it differently: “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is often interred with their bones. So let it be with Caesar.” Talk about an antithesis.
As we may all be aware, Luos don’t just die; they are taken out. Even if the Grim Reaper makes a personal appearance, puts his right hand on the Bible, and confesses that death doesn’t have human hands, my people will always find a way to lay the blame on someone or something, or both. During my father’s burial, I heard it through the grapevine that someone had caused his death; yet he had been ailing for several years.
Joel Rabuku, Major General Francis Ogolla’s son, tried to dispel the rumours surrounding his father’s death. I commend him for his courage. In our community, one of the hardest things during funerals is to stand up — for what is right — against the dictates of elders. They have the final say; from when the deceased will be buried, to how the interment will happen.
Only a few brave men face immortality head-on and leave in-depth instructions to their loved ones about how they should be buried. But, sometimes, situations force us to face what the late Dr Martin Luther King referred to as “life’s final common denominator”– death. Such situations can be a chronic illness or a close shave with death. For me, the epiphany happened during my father’s burial.
As mourners gave their eulogies, I remembered whispering to my daughter how I would like to be buried. I think watching the last rites of someone who’s near and dear to us causes us to wear revelational caps. It forces us to think deeply - and, most undoubtedly, reflexively — about issues which, under other normal circumstances, would never cross our minds.
My daughter is still young. But I think age has nothing to do with speaking about the harsh realities of life. I told her my burial should — just like my Lord and Saviour’s, Jesus Christ — be kept simple. I told her I wanted my body to be wrapped in a shroud; not bedecked in expensive garb. I told her I wanted to be buried within 24 hours. No wreaths, please; give me my flowers while I’m alive.
Six months later? I still stand by every word. Sometimes, as men, we have epiphanies because we’ve witnessed how a straightforward matter can be turned into a complex equation.
