Abrokyir Nkomo: Showman Galore

There is a popular theory about Tottenham, North London. If you stand at the bus stop opposite the Tesco supermarket outside Seven Sisters underground station for five minutes and do not hear two people speaking Twi, you are anywhere else but Tottenham. This scientific theory, otherwise known as the Tottenham Twi Theory(TTT) has been tried and tested. It is not just a Ghanaian enclave- it is a Kumasi colony, Asafo, Ash Town and Bantama rolled into one. From Wood Green to Finsbury Park, through Manor House and Turnpike Lane, Ghanaians have established their base, well-served by Ghanaian food and barbers? shops, churches and restaurants/nightclubs. If you are homesick in London, a trip to Tottenham should cure you-no need for an expensive ticket home.

Last week, I attended a funeral at Broadwater Farm Estates, in Tottenham. Dear Reader, if you are in London and bored on a Saturday, you can do something that a lot of Kumasi women do back home-dress up in funeral gear and attend a funeral, any funeral. Funerals are to the Ashantis what outdoorings are to the Gas and weddings are to the Fantes-it is a very serious matter. It is almost as if these three groups have agreed on specialization of labour regarding life?s three important rites of passage-birth, marriage and death. The Broadwater Farm Commuinty Hall is busy every Saturday, hosting a Ghanaian funeral, mostly, but also other events like parties, durbars etc.

Anyway, as I mentioned, I was invited to a funeral. My friend?s grandmother had died back home, and it was the first anniversary. I thought this was a bit unnecessary and just a money-spinning exercise, but I went anyway. I did not want to offend her sensibilities. At the bus stop opposite the Tesco?s, the Tottenham Twi Theory (TTT) was once again proved-one woman was lamenting to her friend how her man had left her for ?some Jamaican girl?. Her tone was bitter. If curses could kill?.

It was a grand affair. No effort had been spared at making sure the typical Asante funeral lived up to its character. A sea of black and red cloths on display. Kete drums throbbing. Ladies displaying their off-the-shoulder kaba and split-to-the-thigh slit. Booze flowing like the drains of Alajo in the rainy season. I looked out for the London version of iced water and fan milk sellers that parade Abbey?s Park in Kumasi on Saturdays looking for funeral customers. There were none, I am disappointed to announce. My friend was busy speaking to some apparently important people. Just like back home, top priority was given to some people, making sure they had a comfortable seat. Obviously these were people who were going to make big donations. It is an unspoken Ashanti funeral rule, ladies and gentlemen-you are preassesed regarding your donation powers, and accorded the relevant status at the funeral. If you are a potential gold mine, you get a nice cushioned seat, and your drink is served in a proper glass, borne on a silver tray by a sweet young lady. In return, you are expected to make big donations. You know the deal. Exchange is no robbery.

Perched on a table was a big box, manned by a krakye. He was the financial controller , recording the evening?s financial inflow. Two young men assisted him. The krakye had an important job, and he took it seriously. The hall had to be paid for, and the cost of the drinks had to be recouped. Something also had to be sent back home to the abusuafo, their share of the day?s taking. From time to time announcements would be made as to the size of X?s donation. The krakye?s smile grew wider as the evening progressed. Cash and cheques tumbled into the box.

A framed picture of the long departed leaned delicately against the box, an old lady who had obviously never traveled beyond Kumasi prior to nananom summoning her, and now faintly smiling, almost mockingly, at the event unfolding in the white man?s cold country, all in her honour. Long after she had turned to dust, here she was, enjoying her grandchild?s generosity for the first time. Obviously the function was all about my friend?s image and pocket, and not necessarily the old girl.

As the evening wore on, I could not help but compare our funeral industry back home to an English funeral I attended a while ago. It was a basic, simple affair and very subdued. There were just about thirty people at the funeral service. Only close family members were allowed at the burial, which was private. No wailing. (Kwame Kyere, who did you leave me with? I will go with you!!) It was very sedate, almost sterile. There certainly are no one-week or fortieth day celebrations, and English funerals are not public events that just anyone can attend. Try telling a non-African in Europe or America that back home a corpse can remain at the mortuary for about six weeks or more whilst funeral arrangements are made, and you will be met with looks of incredulity.

Our funerals are elaborate affairs, and grand ones to boot. There are important customs to be observed at every stage. Sure, it can be time-wasting, expensive, and not necessarily productive. But then, western funerals do not excite me. I do not like quiet dignified funerals, where people just weep silently and hug each other, putting on brave smiles. Their widows maintain a ?dignified composure? during the funeral. After the burial, they go and have tea, and then go back to their tedious lives. Kai!!

When I exit this world I want to go with a blast, smoky guns blazing, and I make no apologies for that. I don?t want to go quietly. I want a big send-off. I want a proper hearse, draped in rich kente, horns blaring loudly on the way to the cemetery, announcing to nananom that I am on the way. I want a highly-polished coffin, made of fine mahogany, with exquisite interior decorations. I want a gold bed for my wake-keeping. I want to hear proper wailing, the women screaming and saying what a nice person I really was, and how irreplaceable I am (all nonsensical lies of course, but I like to hear that). I don?t care if they have to hire people to weep professionally-I just want to hear the bawling, and better make sure the volume is turned up to the max. I want the best kete group in town with the finest dancers money can buy. I want expensive booze to flow, the young at the funeral to enjoy free love, and long after the funeral, I want people to say ?Ei, his funeral was buei.? At that point, my dry skeletal bones will rattle and snuggle with content in my termite-eaten disintegrating coffin, and I will allow myself a wry smile.

As the teacher says in the Book of Ecclesiastes, ?Vanity, vanity, all is vanity?

There is a popular theory about Tottenham, North London. If you stand at the bus stop opposite the Tesco supermarket outside Seven Sisters underground station for five minutes and do not hear two people speaking Twi, you are anywhere else but Tottenham. This scientific theory, otherwise known as the Tottenham Twi Theory(TTT) has been tried and tested. It is not just a Ghanaian enclave- it is a Kumasi colony, Asafo, Ash Town and Bantama rolled into one. From Wood Green to Finsbury Park, through Manor House and Turnpike Lane, Ghanaians have established their base, well-served by Ghanaian food and barbers? shops, churches and restaurants/nightclubs. If you are homesick in London, a trip to Tottenham should cure you-no need for an expensive ticket home.

Last week, I attended a funeral at Broadwater Farm Estates, in Tottenham. Dear Reader, if you are in London and bored on a Saturday, you can do something that a lot of Kumasi women do back home-dress up in funeral gear and attend a funeral, any funeral. Funerals are to the Ashantis what outdoorings are to the Gas and weddings are to the Fantes-it is a very serious matter. It is almost as if these three groups have agreed on specialization of labour regarding life?s three important rites of passage-birth, marriage and death. The Broadwater Farm Commuinty Hall is busy every Saturday, hosting a Ghanaian funeral, mostly, but also other events like parties, durbars etc.

Anyway, as I mentioned, I was invited to a funeral. My friend?s grandmother had died back home, and it was the first anniversary. I thought this was a bit unnecessary and just a money-spinning exercise, but I went anyway. I did not want to offend her sensibilities. At the bus stop opposite the Tesco?s, the Tottenham Twi Theory (TTT) was once again proved-one woman was lamenting to her friend how her man had left her for ?some Jamaican girl?. Her tone was bitter. If curses could kill?.

It was a grand affair. No effort had been spared at making sure the typical Asante funeral lived up to its character. A sea of black and red cloths on display. Kete drums throbbing. Ladies displaying their off-the-shoulder kaba and split-to-the-thigh slit. Booze flowing like the drains of Alajo in the rainy season. I looked out for the London version of iced water and fan milk sellers that parade Abbey?s Park in Kumasi on Saturdays looking for funeral customers. There were none, I am disappointed to announce. My friend was busy speaking to some apparently important people. Just like back home, top priority was given to some people, making sure they had a comfortable seat. Obviously these were people who were going to make big donations. It is an unspoken Ashanti funeral rule, ladies and gentlemen-you are preassesed regarding your donation powers, and accorded the relevant status at the funeral. If you are a potential gold mine, you get a nice cushioned seat, and your drink is served in a proper glass, borne on a silver tray by a sweet young lady. In return, you are expected to make big donations. You know the deal. Exchange is no robbery.

Perched on a table was a big box, manned by a krakye. He was the financial controller , recording the evening?s financial inflow. Two young men assisted him. The krakye had an important job, and he took it seriously. The hall had to be paid for, and the cost of the drinks had to be recouped. Something also had to be sent back home to the abusuafo, their share of the day?s taking. From time to time announcements would be made as to the size of X?s donation. The krakye?s smile grew wider as the evening progressed. Cash and cheques tumbled into the box.

A framed picture of the long departed leaned delicately against the box, an old lady who had obviously never traveled beyond Kumasi prior to nananom summoning her, and now faintly smiling, almost mockingly, at the event unfolding in the white man?s cold country, all in her honour. Long after she had turned to dust, here she was, enjoying her grandchild?s generosity for the first time. Obviously the function was all about my friend?s image and pocket, and not necessarily the old girl.

As the evening wore on, I could not help but compare our funeral industry back home to an English funeral I attended a while ago. It was a basic, simple affair and very subdued. There were just about thirty people at the funeral service. Only close family members were allowed at the burial, which was private. No wailing. (Kwame Kyere, who did you leave me with? I will go with you!!) It was very sedate, almost sterile. There certainly are no one-week or fortieth day celebrations, and English funerals are not public events that just anyone can attend. Try telling a non-African in Europe or America that back home a corpse can remain at the mortuary for about six weeks or more whilst funeral arrangements are made, and you will be met with looks of incredulity.

Our funerals are elaborate affairs, and grand ones to boot. There are important customs to be observed at every stage. Sure, it can be time-wasting, expensive, and not necessarily productive. But then, western funerals do not excite me. I do not like quiet dignified funerals, where people just weep silently and hug each other, putting on brave smiles. Their widows maintain a ?dignified composure? during the funeral. After the burial, they go and have tea, and then go back to their tedious lives. Kai!!

When I exit this world I want to go with a blast, smoky guns blazing, and I make no apologies for that. I don?t want to go quietly. I want a big send-off. I want a proper hearse, draped in rich kente, horns blaring loudly on the way to the cemetery, announcing to nananom that I am on the way. I want a highly-polished coffin, made of fine mahogany, with exquisite interior decorations. I want a gold bed for my wake-keeping. I want to hear proper wailing, the women screaming and saying what a nice person I really was, and how irreplaceable I am (all nonsensical lies of course, but I like to hear that). I don?t care if they have to hire people to weep professionally-I just want to hear the bawling, and better make sure the volume is turned up to the max. I want the best kete group in town with the finest dancers money can buy. I want expensive booze to flow, the young at the funeral to enjoy free love, and long after the funeral, I want people to say ?Ei, his funeral was buei.? At that point, my dry skeletal bones will rattle and snuggle with content in my termite-eaten disintegrating coffin, and I will allow myself a wry smile.

As the teacher says in the Book of Ecclesiastes, ?Vanity, vanity, all is vanity?