The men come before morning knows itself
They expect ogogoro in a pet bottle
But no need to fuss, they carry their tiny cups
They sit in front, but do not help
They watch you strain, but do not offer
Their only address, Omote, garri dey?
The women arrive a little later
The distant relatives and friendly neighbours
They swing their arms
Their smiles anything but warm
They do not help, but they chorus doh
As you heave and sweat
They chatter, and eat groundnuts
The empty shells left for company
As the plastic chairs gather, commotion settles
A cow is demanded, head reserved for the men
A goat may be added, depends on the dead
The list is long, but tick you must if you wish to bury
For such is the way and always will be
The men feast, and the women want
So they demand banga and firewood
For all mouths are made equal
They would give if they could
But harvest slow and things cost
They come, grand stories on their lips
The mourners, the wailers, the lovers
They weep, they mime, they yammer
Their tongues and memories loosened by ogogoro
And when the elder comes
The trinity of hospitality follows
Kolanut, money, and the mantra
Obo me roto
Me support udo na
I am supporting you in the eating of the kolanut
But I teeter from the weight of welcoming you all
You've come to show how we mourn
But you bring nothing, only your empty bellies that demand filling
These mourners, they come, they go
But long after their footfalls slow
Their shadows remain
In the pile of dirty dishes
The strewn groundnut shells
And the growling stomachs of the bereaved
Ometere is a corporate writer who loves to read more than she loves to write. She is in her element tending to plants in her expanding indoor garden. She lives in Lagos, Nigeria, with her dog, who occasionally embarrasses her by begging strangers for food.