JULY MONTHLY CHALLENGE

Finding Myself Between Guns and Drums on a Funeral in Ghana

The difference between mourning at a funeral and celebrating someone’s life

There were so many people. It was loud. I could hear drums and all kinds of foreign instruments being played. It was a colorful ceremony. Women had put their prettiest dresses on. And so did I.

This was a funeral.

It was so different from all the funerals I had been to previously. Completely different.

This was in January 2015. At the time I was working as a teacher in a school in Ghana. Far north in the country, where people lived in clay huts with or without electricity and with water supply from the nearest well.

I was staying with a host family and just after returning from a one-week holiday down south over New Year’s, my host father was asking me if I was interested in going with him to a funeral. The big chief of a neighboring town had passed away.

At first, I was hesitant. Of course, I wanted to go. I love indulging in new cultures and experiencing their traditions firsthand. But I also knew I had no black clothes in my backpack.

Growing up in Germany, I had been to a handful of funerals before, and if there was one rule to be followed so it was to wear all black clothes to display the feelings of sadness for having lost a person.

I was told to wear my most colorful dress.

I was confused but my host father repeated his words saying I should wear my most colorful dress. That was something easy for me.

I put on my yellow-orange shining dress and swung on the back of the motorbike. I have no idea where he got the bike from because my host family only owned a bicycle. But off we went.

No helmet, no glasses. We drove across the fields on sandy roads. In this part of the country, there are no tarred roads. Only dust and sand. I don’t know how my host dad saw anything in the front because he also wasn’t wearing any protection on his face.

I just closed my eyes and held on for life. Yes, this is how your behavior changes with time and place. Just a few months back I wouldn’t get on the back of the bike of my ex-boyfriend.

And all of a sudden I sat daily on motorbikes on the back of a total stranger. Without a doubt. And without a blink of an eye.

Unless I got sand in my eyes. Then I did blink.

We arrived at the ceremony. From afar I could hear and sense the festival.

Yes, funerals are a festival in Ghana. Especially if it’s the funeral of a chief or some other high official in the tribal community. The higher the person’s stand the longer the time between the passing of the person and the funeral celebration.

The corpses will get stored for years in a cooling house. I’ve been told of people who’ve had their funeral 8 years after their death. You’ll find posters all across the towns if a big funeral is coming up.

And such a funeral isn’t a function of an hour or two. It takes days. Sometimes even a week.

Funerals in Ghana are festivals.

People celebrate the life of the person.

And that is the big difference between a funeral in western societies and traditions over there. Back home we mourn for the person that has passed. We shed countless tears and feel sad.

This funeral was different.

People were dancing. People were drumming and singing. People were happy and sharing smiles with each other. Because they knew the person had a great life and they wanted to celebrate it.

My host father had pulled me into the inner circle. Only the elders were sitting next to me. I felt uncomfortable because I had no connection to the person that had passed away and no right to be in the middle but my host father had confirmed he asked the elders and they all nodded toward me.

I accepted it and tried to blend in.

As the only white person among 200 native Ghanaians. I’m sure you can imagine how I stood out from the crowd.

Very soon I forgot about my presence in the crowd and felt emerged by the drumming and singing. The musicians were drumming with their whole hearts. You could see serious faces, focusing on the beat and the song they were playing.

The crowds were dancing and cheering. And soon I found myself moving with the rhythm. Nobody pointed at me or stared me down. I was accepted. I was even encouraged to take part in the dancing.

Many of the musical instruments played at this funeral I had never seen or even heard of before. They were all-natural. Made of whatever the locals find in nature. I assume some of them were made of fruits. Some of animal skin and bones.

I don’t know what they are called. But I still feel the sound going through my body. The rhythm. The music. It was magical.

“If you want to go fast go alone. If you want to go far go together.” — African Proverb

Even the youngest ones were part of the celebration. Each and everyone with a drum or some sort of musical instrument in a fitting size.

And no, I wasn’t the only one documenting the ceremony. There were plenty of people holding up their phones and I even saw a few digital cameras.

As rural and as far as this place might have been from civilization. Technology travels faster and across cultures and traditions.

One of my favorite pictures of that day. It combines modern technology and development with traditions and culture.

A beautiful woman wearing a headscarf focussing on her small digital camera.

Modern technology doesn’t need to erase or replace old traditions and tribal celebrations. They can co-exist. Side by side.

The elders were the only ones sitting in this ceremony. Everyone else was standing, dancing, or drumming.

I loved looking at the women on site. They stood together in groups. And they looked so pretty. They were wearing gorgeous dresses and beautiful headscarves.

The women were shining with inner beauty too.

The drumming was taking over again. A group of men was bringing larger instruments. Space was made for them to take over the center. One guy was dancing. His traditional shirt was flying through the air as he was moving his body to the rhythm of the music.

Then something was happening. A movement went through the crowds. Benches got picked up and carried away from the circle.

All of a sudden my host father appeared. I had no idea where he had been all the time. I looked once and realized very quickly I wouldn’t find him. I don’t know how he knew all the time where I was.

That was silly. Of course, he knew where I was. I just had forgotten how I stood out in the crowd.

I was the only salaminga at the festival.

That is the word they use here to describe a white person. We’re no more or less. Just white.

And all of a sudden my body flinched. What was that? A firework? But it sounded like a gunshot.

My host father was next to me laughing. That’s a lie. He was crying out loud.

Thanks for your empathy.

He knew I was still suffering from my injury not even five days prior to this event when I had been hit by a New Year rocket. He knew I still had an open wound on my leg. He knew I was suffering some sort of trauma.

Yet, he laughed at me shivering as these men were shooting in the air. He didn’t tell me about it. Saying this would be something I should expect at the event. No warnings.

This is Africa.

They teach you how to be resilient. From their way of talking to their behaviors.

So here I am. In the middle of the crowds. At a funeral in Ghana. Where countless men were lifting their rifles in the sky. Among other people.

Nobody got hurt. It was and is all part of the ceremony. It's just a bit, let's say, odd if you have never experienced an African funeral celebration before. It wasn’t something I had expected.

And yet, I was part of it now.

I surely enjoyed the dancing, drumming and singing part more than this one. But I tried to relax into it. I moved backward. Not just a step or two but several meters.

My host father standing in front of me.

Still laughing.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s a great person. He has a good soul. Always helped me if I needed help in school or anywhere in my daily life in Ghana. He looked after me. He even made the effort to teach me their local language. One of 66 languages in the country.

But he just found it very funny how I was getting scared of the shots fired.

How weird, isn’t it?

We didn’t stay that long anymore. I mean this funeral had just started and was going to take another two or three days. But it was a great experience. An experience I wasn’t going to forget anytime soon. Despite or because of the gunshots. It doesn’t matter.

It made me rethink why we have funerals and how I can go through the process of mourning at a person’s passing rather than celebrating the person and his or her life instead of crying about it.

And I never felt obliged to wear black again at any funeral. I did wear yellow at my grandma’s funeral last year and I didn’t care what people thought about it. I knew she would have been smiling seeing me in bright yellow.

And that was something I took back from my time in Ghana.

Share more happiness.

Be yourself. Don’t judge others. Just celebrate together. Whatever it is.

Thank you, Ghana for your hospitality.

This is an inspiration for all Globetrotters out there to share their stories about festivals and celebrations they’ve taken part in around the globe. A response to the July monthly challenge written by Crystal A. Walker.

Globetrotters will accept submissions until the 30th of July. Please don’t forget to add the tag “monthly challenge”.

And for those who missed the wrap-up of the June writing challenge, here’s the post for the finalists:

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