Bongolistically,
It was during my youthful days when a sudden commotion disrupted the solemnity of the burial procession of a relative.
Pa Abu, an elderly man, had fallen ill five days prior. His fever spiked unexpectedly, and his breathing grew shallow until, to those keeping vigil, he appeared to have ceased breathing altogether. The village elders concluded that Pa Abu had passed away.
Following custom, his body was promptly prepared. The elders cleansed him with herbal concoctions, their weathered hands performing the sacred rites with quiet reverence. His brothers dressed him in his finest attire. Before prayers, he lay in a wooden coffin, its lid swiftly nailed shut, in accordance with the tradition that the burial must take place if possible same day.
After prayers, six men hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders. The procession wound its way toward the burial grounds after the football field, mourners trailing behind.
As they crossed the field marking the closest point to the cemetery, a faint scratching emanated from within the coffin, followed by a distinct thud. The lead pallbearer felt the weight shift. Another thud. The coffin trembled.
The procession halted. Whispers rippled through the crowd.
“He’s moving,” someone murmured.
The elders exchanged wary glances. One stepped forward, his voice low and grave.
“This is witchcraft. His spirit refuses to depart.”
Fear swept over the assembly. Generational tales spoke of such occurrences—of souls that lingered, defying their final rest, as if bewitched by dark forces.
Inside the coffin, Abu stirred from what could have been a deep, drugged slumber. Disoriented and enveloped in darkness, he seemed strained against his confines. Yet, as the murmurs grew louder, the ceremony continued. Despite the faint evidence of life, tradition held sway.
The village headman raised his staff.
“We must proceed. The burial ground will contain what seeks to return.”
In the midst of the tension, the process moved forward. The coffin was set down and, without further inquiry, the final handfuls of earth were heaped upon it. The ceremony ended, and the mourners slowly dispersed, leaving behind a silence laden with unspoken questions.
I was too young to have a voice. That night I began to imagine how, because of blindly adhering to custom and tradition, deadly errors could be made. A thick mist rolled over the burial grounds, wrapping the freshly turned soil in an eerie quiet. In the solitude of the cemetery, the wind whispered through the trees, and a lone dog howled in the distance.
I imagined that somewhere beneath the layers of earth, a faint movement might have stirred—a subtle twitch that no one could see. In that moment, one could almost believe that Pa Abu, who had briefly defied death, was still caught between worlds. Yet, as the hours passed, no further sign of his awakening surfaced. The village had, by all accounts, laid him to rest.
The elders later spoke in hushed tones of the strange occurrence. While some believed it was a sign of dark sorcery, others whispered that perhaps, in the realm between life and death, Pa Abu had taken one last breath of resistance before finally succumbing to his fate.
In the days that followed, the incident left an indelible mark on the community. The events at the burial became a cautionary tale—reminding all that, sometimes, even when life appears to stir within, tradition and fate may decree that a soul must remain in its final rest.
And so, Pa Abu was buried. His final resting place, shrouded by mist and mystery, remained a clear reminder that in our villages, where the past and present intertwine, not all questions find their answers. Today I advise that whenever a coffin shakes on its own, it must be opened quickly to confirm the assumed dead.
Have a lovely midweek.
