Chidi grew up in the hamlet of Nsukka, watching his father toil from dawn to dusk as a palm-wine tapper. Their small bungalow in the village stood as a silent reminder of honest poverty; cracked walls, rusted roofing sheets, and a compound always swept clean by his mother’s broom. When his father died, there was barely enough for a decent coffin. Yet, his brothers, who rarely visited, insisted that “our father must be buried like a great man.” The family house was rented out to a caterer for logistics, his father’s only farmland was hurriedly sold, loans were taken, and a WhatsApp group was launched with the commanding title: “Papa’s Final Honour — Support Fund.”
Three months after the dust of the extravagant funeral settled, nothing changed in Chidi’s life except the accumulated debts and the empty house that once belonged to his father. What was intended to “honour” a man who lived in penury only dishonoured the very struggles he endured.
Sadly, Chidi’s family is not alone in this kind of story.
A trend has been crawling into our consciousness like a silent plague: funerals have become a theatre of competition. Modesty, which was once a hallmark of Igbo culture, is now seen as backwardness. The funeral ceremony is no longer the solemn celebration of a life well-lived; it has become a public relations stunt. It is now: “Who will kill more cows?” “Whose mother will trend more on social media?” “Who will host a star musician at the burial?”
Mourning and merriment have become inseparable, locked in a shameful marriage of convenience. Our ancestors must be shaking their heads.
The philanthropic English polymath, John Ruskin once stated, “When prosperity comes, do not use all of it.”
But today, we seek to spend all, borrow more, and even crowd-fund grief.
There was once a time when crowdfunding was for medical bills, education, or emergency survival. Today, WhatsApp groups are opened with urgency, not because the dead needs saving, but because the family desperately wants to appear financially buoyant.
People donate, not out of charity, but as credit for future funerals, they will host in their foreseeable time. It is currently like a burial Ponzi scheme. You give today so that they will give tomorrow; not out of love or empathy, but out of a contract of capitalistic grief.
As the Holy Scripture warns,
“If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you?” (LK 6:32). We no longer give because we care. We give because we hope to reap.
Ndigbo were once renowned for moderation, “ka aka hàà nwanyi ka O na-atukwasi Di ya” (It is wisdom to live within your means). This idiom figuratively buttresses Kiss Daniel’s song — “no go dey do pass yourself.” We had suddenly forgotten that even from the olden days, prior to the arrival of this materialistic order, burial rites were communal but never excessive. Even Christianity, embraced deeply across Southeast Nigeria, teaches simplicity in honouring the dead. Christ Himself was buried by twilight, in a borrowed tomb, no fireworks, no cows, no glitz.
So how did we arrive here, where the dead in poverty must be buried in extravagance? As Chinua Achebe reminded us: “A people who do not know where the rain began to beat them cannot know where they dried their bodies.”
We have abandoned our values and embraced a capitalist culture that commodifies love, death, and dignity.
This trend has birthed: debts that cripple families for years, sale of family assets meant for surviving dependants, fake friendships built on transactional grief, emotional trauma masked by noise and flamboyance, and a warped value system and a misplaced priority preferences which prefers luxury in death over welfare in life.
A father who lived without electricity is now embalmed in imported casket with electric lighting. A mother neglected in sickness is celebrated with “aso ebi”, drones and fireworks after death.
We closed our ears against the wise counsel of Nelson Mandela that: “There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its living.” And that’s why today, we treat our dead better than our living.
Where Do We Go from Here?
If this trend continues, in the next few years; then a funeral without a live band will be considered shameful. Crowdfunding will become compulsory for status. Modest burials will be mocked and families will inherit only debts not legacy anymore.
This is not progress.
This is cultural decay wrapped in lace and champagne.
The Igbo Traditional Rulers, Ohanaeze Ndigbo, the Clergy, and Town Unions must rise to restore sanity. Rules must be enacted not to deny dignity, but to restore decency. We must choose what values define us. We must choose what legacy we leave behind.
We must retrace our steps by making conscious efforts to rediscover our humanity
Funerals should reflect who the deceased truly was, not who we wish society to think they were. If they lived humbly, let their departure be humble. If they struggled, let us honour their struggle by caring for those they left behind.
Let us return to a funeral culture where love is the currency, prayers are the gifts, memories are the highlights, and humanity is the celebration.
We have to recall that true honour is not in the size of the cow slaughtered… but in the hearts lifted because the deceased once lived.
As we bury our loved ones, let us bury excessive pride with them. Let us mourn with grace, celebrate with modesty, and remember with love. That, indeed, is the dignity the dead deserve. And the wisdom the living must reclaim.
May daylight spare us!
✍️ Jude Eze.
