Fun at a funeral

Uncle E.E.’s home-going rites were an epic reunion and a carnival.

Cousins, cousins, cousins. Credit: Author

“Only E.E. can draw this kind of crowd,” Fred, my cousin, mused as he took in the throng of people seated under several canopies on the field.

He was right.

First, Uncle E.E.’s passing spurred a classic homecoming within and outside the family. He was the last of the four brothers to go. The one who’d held the family together. The most popular Olomukoro son of his generation. The family turned up in their numbers from all over the country and beyond.

I met relatives whose names I’d only heard of before. And those who I didn’t know were blood. I also met some whom I had crossed paths with once or twice many, many moons ago.  Introductions abounded, and many migwos and smiles ensued.

For the familiar and buddies amongst us, it was a shout-out loud, fierce-hugging reunion.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Ese, Uncle E.E.’s sister’s son, said smiling winsomely as I joined him in the church pew. “How long has it been? You look good.” So did he. Fantastic even. I called him the model afterwards.

“Fat don come,” Ejiro, one of E.E.’s daughters, teased as we hugged. Yeah, yeah, I know. I used to be a size nothing before marriage and motherhood. Growing up, we were sisters in crime in DSC and Agbarho.

“See my people,” Edna, another of E.E.’s daughters, squealed when she noticed me moving towards her. We’d braved Delta State University and the University of Benin together; our shared experiences helped us form a kinship and bond that kept us connected.

All four Olomukoro brothers were amply represented. From James to David to E.E. to Julius. Their sisters’ children took their numbers amongst the family members present, too.

I met several otherwise unknown relations who spoke well of my father, who’d known me as an infant, who were genuinely thrilled to see my three siblings and me. One of Uncle James’s daughters couldn’t stop hugging me or the tears lining her eyes in the process. “You won’t remember me,” she said in between hugs. “The last time I saw you, you were a baby.” Well, hey, I grew up.

In uniform fabric are some of Uncle E.E.’s children and their spouses. Credit: Author

A large family means a large following.

Uncle E.E. begat 11 children. He was the epitome of an authentic virile Urhobo man and son of the Ophori-Agbarho soil.

Those 11 offspring brought along their spouses, children, friends, and colleagues, as expected, to the occasion, adding yet another layer to the burgeoning crowd.

It was interesting and heartwarming to see my cousins’ friends from secondary schools and universities and even as far back as Delta Steel Company, flocking in to support them and pay their respects to a man they all knew and loved.

Uncle E.E.'s children, in-laws, and grandchildren. Credit: Author

It takes a village.

Finally, do I need to write that only a few people in Agbarho didn’t know who Uncle E.E. was?

The villagers showed up en masse to see off one of their own. The congregation of the funeral mass spilled out onto the grounds of the church.

And for the reception held in a field about five times the size of the church, Kingsley, Uncle E.E.’s first son, confessed later that night: “wen I see the crowd eh, my heart cut. We go fit feed all these people so?”

From chitchat with my cousins, I understood that Uncle E.E. - before he died - instructed that he be given a befitting burial.

To that directive, his children rose to the occasion. Elegantly. Gallantly. Uncle would have been outrageously proud of them.

A tiny section of the intimidating field is captured as two of Uncle E.E.’s daughters enter. Credit: Author

That crowd, they fed. Every single one. Including the uninvited lurking around. With food and drinks. With the common and expected: jollof and fried rice; banga soup & starch; egusi soup & pounded yam, etc. And with the uncommon: fish and chips; suya, etc. While musicians with Urhobo’s distinct sound and dances added their flavour to the event. They also sent their guests home with varying souvenirs.

Each child owned a canopy for visitors and family members. Cousins, relatives, and friends drifted in and out of the canopies at will.

Some of us commandeered a table beneath Ejiro’s and settled there to continue catching up, bantering, eating, and doing what relatives did when they were together.

Cousins all. From left to right: Ese, Fred, Marie, Ejiro & Idolor. Credit: Author

In his lifetime, Uncle E.E. drew the family together, making introductions and connections, ensuring we knew and kept in touch with one another. At any given time in his house, his children and his siblings’/relatives’ children mingled and grew up together.

Even in death, he still managed that feat, bringing all of us together in one location.

It is unlikely that this type of large family gathering would ever reoccur. Whoever among us missed out on it did themselves a great disservice to a once-in-a-lifetime family opportunity.

Uncle Edward Elekorirhe, migwo. Woruru. Wakobiruo. Rest well.