WHEN MY GRANDMA DIED........Lessons from Death and the Thought of Dying

 by Ahmed Abdul-Hanan Deeshini

This is a story about me and my experience with life, and death if I can dare say so. This piece was motivated by the death of my grandmother; Hajia Barikisu Mahama, who died on the 17^th of January,2014(May her gently soul rest in the bosom of Allah). Her death taught me a lot of things that I would otherwise not know. I got to learn a lot about death and the processes involved in performing funerals, as prescribed by Islam and the Dagbon tradition, both of which I belong to. The following therefore represents what I saw and heard, mostly from my grandfather, whom I will call a bank of knowledge of the tradition and religious tenets and practices of the people of Dagbon.

There is no doubt that the only guaranteed event that will definitely face each and every single living being; be they male or female, rich or poor, black or white, sick or healthy, is death. Despite the uneasiness people feel in talking about or even merely thinking about this dark topic, due to its unavoidable and inevitable nature, it only makes sense to prepare for it.

I used to hear people talk about death and how painful it was to loose someone to it. I even severally played the role of a comforter in many occasions to my friends and colleagues. It was extremely very difficult for me to actually perfectly play that role because I had not the required experience to do so. So I was merely showing my own conviction of sympathy even though I wasn't so sure on many occasions if my role was impactful.

This was happening not because I had no sense of pity nor was it because I was faking my feelings. It was just because I had never found myself in that position. A position no one would want to be found in. I had never lost a relative or friend with whom I was very close and so I did not know exactly how to console a bereaved. I would call myself lucky, but alas, this kind of luck has never been everlasting and mine was not an exception.

My luck started fading out on November 16^th 2012, when one of my grandmothers, Nafisatu Sulemana, died. I pray she is in peace, wherever she is.  Her death hit me with a big blow as I saw her just the night before and we talked just for like a minute. Now I was struck by reality in this case. I had never cried that much upon someone’s passing like I did that fateful Thursday evening.

Then in November, 2013, just when the family was preparing to hold a one year remembrance prayer for her, another of my grandmothers, Hajia Azara died on the 4^th of November. I was out of the country then but I felt it from the morning of that day. I remember telling a Kenyan colleague that I feel something has happened to my grandmother. I got the news much later, but her death wasn’t as painful maybe because I was away from home or because she died from a protracted illness. The last time I heard her speak, I had gone with my cousin, Hafiz, to say hello to her. She prayed for us and Hafiz prayed that she lives long but she didn’t seem to like that prayer. She bluntly told us that she has seen all there is in this world and that there is nothing more to experience, besides she is suffering so much from her malady. I remember those words as her last ones to me as an individual. 

Two months later, in January 2014, as if the angel of death had been given special orders to make sure our tears do not dry up. My dad came home on Thursday, the 16^th and called me into the sitting room, he looked very distressed. He told me that his mum’s (my grandma) sickness has gotten out of hand and that he is filled with fear. Because of the polygamous nature of Africans and Muslims, we were blessed with many grandmothers, And I was really close to them as they loved me dearly.

I was dumbfounded as I didn't know exactly what to say. I spent more than half my life as a kid in the same room with her. She was my everything then, she loved her grandchildren dearly and did not want anybody to touch us. She would not even let us do any chores. She virtually worshiped us and here she is, helpless, and there was nothing I could do for her. I felt I had not even done enough to appreciate her love and compassion for me and for virtually bringing me up. As these thoughts were running through my mind, my dad interrupted, I did not hear his initial statements but what I heard him say after, was that, “Not all sick people die”. I took this as a re-assurance and planned with Zara, my ;sister' to go see her in the morning before I go to work.

My sleep was interrupted some minutes past midnight by my father, he told me he received a call to come and see his mother (Which I later learnt means she is dead). I opened the gates for him and he drove out with my mum. I could not sleep, as I kept seeing my grandmother each time I closed my eyes, and so I got up and woke Hafiz, my cousin. We got to my grandfather’s house, where my grandma was. We were told not tell anyone just yet, because it was late and it would not be a good idea to wake people up. And so we had to wait until morning before we broke the news. As we waited, we planned on what to do and how to go about the burial arrangements. This came to be my very first time being actually involved in the planning processes of funerals and what became an eye opener for me on how funerals are performed Muslim Dagombas and its difference with the typical traditional Dagomba funeral, which is un-Islamic.  

And that, is my ‘experience’ with death. I will be writing a sequel on funerals rights as performed by  Muslim Dagombas.