The Funeral Was Grand, But I Needed a Quiet Goodbye

It’s been exactly a year today since I got the call from Dad — his voice trembling, broken — telling me that Mum was gone. I could hear the wailing in the background. At least he wasn’t alone. It was devastating, but, in truth, not unexpected. Earlier that morning, he’d messaged to say she was unresponsive and that he’d called the doctor to come to the house. She’d been unwell for a while, and when she realised her time was near, she made the decision to go back home to Nigeria from the UK. That was just like her — always practical, fiercely independent, not wanting to be a burden and always wanting to be where her roots were.

When I got the call, there wasn’t really time to stop and feel anything. It was straight into planning mode. I conference called my brother and sister and broke the news. We were all expecting this and within minutes we were on the phone – calling our respective spouses, close extended family, friends, her Church pastor – trying to hold it together while passing on the worst kind of news. Then came the logistics: agreeing the funeral date, getting time off work, sorting flights, figuring out childcare, while checking in on our elderly Dad, who was our primary concern. 

There was no time to sit still. No time to feel.I’m still not sure if I’ve truly grieved. Maybe I have. Maybe I’m still grieving. 

Sometimes I wonder if I even understand what grief is supposed to be and feel like. Was it that moment I called my better half right after hanging up from my siblings and through tears, whispering, “She’s gone”? He understood instantly and rushed home, and I cried all over again when he walked through the door. Then came the phone calls to close family — each one setting off another wave of tears, theirs triggering mine. Or maybe it was later that day, when my bestie came by after work just to see how I was doing and gradually the weight of it, the reality of it, hit me in that moment.

Or maybe it was the next day, when I stupidly logged on to work because I didn’t want to sit alone with my thoughts. My manager asked if I was alright, and before I could even answer, I just broke down.

Or maybe it was the emotions I felt when messages started coming in — texts, cards, calls, even cash — from old friends, acquaintances, and in-laws I hadn’t heard from in years. Each one a small act of kindness that caught me off guard. And then there were my close friends, the ones who called regularly, who checked in even when I didn’t know what to say, who just let me talk — or not talk. They and especially my better half were the sounding boards, the steady voices that quietly held space for me, and still do.

But is that it? Were those fleeting and much appreciated moments of connection supposed to be what grief feels like? They came and went so quickly, almost too light to hold on to.

Looking back, I think my grieving started much earlier — when she was diagnosed with dementia. That’s when we began losing her, bit by bit. She had other managed age-related ailments, but dementia was the one that changed everything. It was the mother of them all — cruel, relentless, and impossible to reason with. She’d forget things, say odd things, move stuff around and forget where she’d put them, sometimes even leave the door unlocked when she went out. When the diagnosis came, it just confirmed what we already feared. From that day, I started grieving my mum – the strong, kind, no-nonsense woman who raised me. Tough but fair. Selfless to a fault. She’d rather go without so her children, and even extended family, could have.

She had her flaws, of course – who doesn’t? She was 84, of a different time, and sometimes we didn’t always see eye to eye, especially when it came to my sexuality. That tension never really went away. But she was my mum. I loved her, exactly as she was.

I think many of us grow up believing grief should look a certain way — the tears, the breakdowns, the dark clothes, the endless days in bed. But I’ve learned it’s not like that. People grieve differently. Some cry. Some go quiet. Some stay busy. Some just disappear. There’s no right or wrong way. I think I always knew that in theory, but when it happens to you, it’s different in practice. It becomes real. And I’ve had to remind myself that just because my grief looks one way, it doesn’t mean everyone else’s has to — my expectations were mine, not theirs.

In our Igbo culture, it’s even harder. The traditions don’t seem to leave much space for the bereaved to process loss in their own way. Everything is dictated by “custom”, which often translates to people’s expectation based on old traditions and current social media trends. You’re told, “Don’t cry, be strong for your father,” or “You’re the man of the family now.” The culture assumes strength, assumes composure, assumes you will perform grief the way it has always been done – with little thought for how you feel inside.

My father wanted his wife’s funeral to reflect her status as the wife of a clan head and that of a woman whose children live abroad. That meant a grand affair of near biblical proportions— canopies, cameramen, cows, drinks, bags of rice and souvenirs for guests. A celebration of life, perhaps, but at times it felt more like a spectacle than a farewell.

He was the chief mourner, on the ground and in charge. We, on the other hand, were mostly figuring things out as we went, strangers to the finer points of local customs. So it was easier to defer to him, to trust that he knew what needed to be done. Still, we tried to draw the line where we could. When he suggested calling her “Dame” on the posters and programmes, we pushed back. She wasn’t a Dame — and she didn’t need to be. She didn’t need a title to be respected. She was “Mrs”. She was our Mum. That was enough. But people at home love their titles — it gives everything a sense of importance, even if it feels hollow and proved expensive for the mourners.

And of course, funerals bring out the best and worst in people. Some family members were kind and supportive. Others… not so much. One cousin asked for Mum’s medication just days after she died — hoping to sell it. Another, who was meant to supervise the butchering of the two cows, quietly sent a large portion of the meat to her own house. By the day of the burial ceremony, we’d run short of beef.

My mother’s sister, upset with my dad over the funeral arrangements, tried to use the moment to stir things up. She wanted to air his past mistakes, to turn us against him. We shut it down quickly. No marriage is perfect. Besides Mum had every opportunity to leave the marriage if she wanted to, but like most Igbo women her generation did, she cleaved to her husband and stayed through the challenges, the disagreements, the frustrations — and that choice shaped the life we all shared. 

Perhaps that was my aunt and cousins’ way of expressing grief .🤷🏾‍♂️

Then there was my dad’s sister — a woman I hadn’t spoken to in over 25 years. Barely twenty seconds into our first conversation, she asked why I wasn’t married. Thankfully, a few friends had warned me that some villagers will be insensitive and raise this even in the middle of mourning. I was ready. I told her calmly that in case she hadn’t noticed, I had just lost my mother and that this wasn’t the time or place for that conversation. She backed off.

Even the driver I hired tried to take advantage. He showed up the next morning with a smaller car than we’d agreed on, insisting on the same price and a side of “Take it or leave it,” attitude.  So, I left it and made other arrangements.

Then there were all the customs — some that made sense, and others that just made me shake my head. My dad, as the widower, wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything prepared for the burial festivities. And only a widow or a single person could prepare meals for him in the run-up to the funeral. Somehow, we got around that one on a technicality. Of all my parents’ children, I’m the only one in a same-sex relationship. And since same-sex partnerships aren’t recognised culturally or legally, that technically made me “single enough” to cook for Dad. So, I got the honour — and the absurdity — of doing it myself. He survived.

We also had to formally inform my mother’s kindred of her passing – bringing drinks and a goat – and later contribute to their transportation so they could come and pay their respects and agree on where she would be buried in the compound. And after her burial they were presented with a cow to take back home, oh and of course we paid for the ‘freighting’ of the cow as well.

Everything leading up to the funeral was chaos. I barely had time to think, let alone sit with my emotions. Even during the actual service, two members of the church choir, sidled up to me, to say that the amount of food set aside for the choir after the service, wouldn’t be enough.  (Deeper Life Church o!!!!)😳

I wish I’d taken a quiet moment to see mum at the mortuary before the burial — just me and her, one last goodbye.  That was on me. It was my choice not to. Maybe I wanted to hold on as long as possible to the memory of seeing her alive for the last time, at the airport when we saw her off. Or maybe I was still in denial. Instead, the first time I saw her was during the lying-in-state, when I opened the casket for viewing.  Seeing her lying there broke something in me. And people could see it. 

And even then, it didn’t feel like my moment. There was a cameraman hovering with his lens trained on me, people watching, a kinsman whispering in my ear, ushering me along, telling me to be strong. The irony was that when Mum was being lowered into the ground, that same kinsman broke down completely. I ended up handing him a handkerchief.

Then came the feeding of the guests. We estimated about 300 people turned up – some invited, many not. In fact, the uninvited far outnumbered those we knew. They arrived in droves, plates in hand, eyes scanning for food before they even greeted anyone. It was clear many had no real connection to our family. They were there for the spectacle — and for the meal.

Dad had anticipated it, of course. He knew how these things go and planned accordingly. There was plenty of food – except for the unfortunate beef shortage – but still, the chaos was something else. There’s something about poverty mixed with entitlement that brings out the worst in people. Guests pushed, shouted, demanded to be served first, some even packed food to take home while others hadn’t eaten yet.

What struck me most wasn’t just the disorder — it was how little space there was for grief in all of it. We, the bereaved, were reduced to hosts. There was no quiet moment to sit, no pause to breathe or reflect. Just noise and people who seemed more concerned about jollof rice and souvenirs than the woman we were there to bury. Some even solicited me for money…just because they could. The whole thing, despite our best efforts to keep it organised, felt like a chaotic aid distribution center, rather than a farewell.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever learn to make space for the bereaved — not just the guests or the spectacle. Our traditions are rich, but they often forget the heart of it: the people left behind.

It’s been a year, and I’m still figuring out what grieving really means. Maybe grief isn’t something you finish – it just changes shape over time. What I know now is that love doesn’t end when a person does. It lingers quietly — in habits, in memory, in silence. Maybe that’s enough.