The Evolution Of My Knowledge Of Death, The Killjoy

At about ten years, I knew no friend or relative who had died. I had heard about death, but it was both distant and abstract to my mind. I also did not know a friend who had gone insane. In the end, I had only heard about strangers who had died and insane persons who were unknown to me. In the case of death, my grandparents had died while I was still very young. In fact, I did not even know any of them (since, I spent all my life in Accra). As a child, therefore, my desire was to have personal knowledge of persons who had either died or become insane (of course, that was an insane thinking of me).

Consequently, as a child, I used to argue with my late father, Anthony Prempeh, over the appropriate word for the dead. My father tried many times reasoning with me about the appropriateness of the Akan word for the dead, 'efunu', literally translated as 'dirt' or 'waste'. I told him we should simply call the dead 'Obia we wu' to wit, 'someone who is dead'. As a child, I felt the name 'efunu' was just inappropriate, as it looked so demeaning.

But, I understood my father and the logic inhabited in the term when a few weeks after I had argued with him over the name, one of the chiefs of the Guruni people (we used to call them Kanjaga) died in my community. We were playing football at the back of the house where the chief was to be laid in state. In the course of playing our football, we heard the siren of the hearse wailing, which was so laud that we had to halt our game. But for me, it was the opportunity to test my philosophy about death.

Fortunately, the window to the room where the chief had been laid in state was open with barely any curtain. So, I decided to take a glance at the mortal remains of the chief. I struggled to peep through the widow. And Christ! I could not stand it. When my gaze fell on the chief, I noticed there was something terribly going to happen to me. I rushed home without saying a word to my friends. As I left my friends, I went straight to take cover in the arms of my father. And because it was a weekend, he was home. That gave me an immediate respite.

I told my father my experience, and he only stared at me, as if to say, "I told you so." But that wasn't all. The night was only waiting for me. When we went to bed, I struggled to take the image of the deceased chief out of my mind. After many hours of struggles, I rushed to my father, who graciously offered me covering. I made sure my body touched his to be certain that when the spirit of the chief came around, my father would protect me.

My second knowledge of death came from the death of one of my schoolmates, Matilda Tagoe. In 1995, my colleagues and I were to transition from Primary school (Kotobabi Presbyterian Primary School - KPPS) to Junior High School (Kotobabi '15' JSS - K'15'). It was all joy for us, because we were eventually going to hold the drawing board, which was a marker of progress in education. In fact, our interest was not about the technical skills we were going to learn (which Jerry John Rawlings, the first president of the Fourth Republic, had introduced in the 1980s). But our joy was interrupted. We had a colleague, Matilda Tagoe, who had developed a ‘hole’ in her heart. And so, as part of the preparation to JSS, we were very much involved in praying (even though we knew very little about God - He was very abstract to most of us).

But since our school was built and partly managed by the Presbyterian Church of Ghana, we had learned so many hymns, which we sometimes sang without touching base with their true meaning. But during the health crises of Matilda, we would sing all the hymns we had been taught. We sang during Wednesday Worship and Friday (when he learned new songs). We were also going to Matilda’s house to sing to her. And she being a Presbyterian, we thought she would enjoy the hymns and regain her health. I was very much involved in the singing and whispering (sometimes meaningless prayers), because Matilda was a personal friend to me. I used to write her notes for her, and she would give me some coins for 'Asana' (a local non-alcoholic drink).

As pupils, we prayed and prayed and prayed, hoping against hope that God would save Matilda. But, sadly, Matilda did not survive. She died young. It was a difficult experience for us. It was the first time someone I knew personally had died. I am not given to crying, and so I don't remember crying. But I felt the pain of Matilda's death. At that time, God did not mean so much to me, so I had no serious questions for him. I only reflected on the song, which had become popular in Ghana at the time ('Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King'), and rather directed my questions to my father, whom I considered the epitome of knowledge.

As a Catholic of a different breed, he tried to give me very terse responses that hardly made sense to me. In fact, I felt he did not have most of the answers to the questions I raised about death. For example, I asked him about the origin of death. I also asked him about the fate (destination) of Matilda. He did not introduce me to purgatory. Possibly, he thought they were complex for me to understand. While he tried not to avoid me, he would always appear busy anytime he saw me approaching (I was a very troublesome boy with plenty questions to ask).

Finally, it was his death that made me understand the killjoy bent of death. It was December 13, 2008. I had just finished my first degree, and was enjoying my national service, as a teaching assistant at the Department of African Studies, University of Cape Coast, Ghana. I had left Cape Coast to Accra on December 6 to cast my vote the following day (during Ghana's national elections). I voted, and revealed my plans of postgraduate education to my father. He was excited, but as a peasant, he was not sure how I was going to fund it.

I tried to convince him that he should not worry. He, somehow, was convinced and gave me his blessing. On December 11, I left for the University of Cape Coast. But before leaving, he told me that if there was a run off with the elections, he was not going to vote. I was not sure what he meant by that, since almost every Ghanaian wanted a change in government. But he kept insisting that he was not going to vote during a run off.

I did not understand what he was communicating to me, so I just left. On December 13, 2008, I was upbeat to go and prepare students for examination. But, I suddenly, started experiencing an unusual feeling of uneasiness. I knew I was not sick. I also knew I had adequately prepared for my class. But, I could not figure out the source of my discomfort. Since time was fast approaching for my class, I decided to go to my hall canteen (Casely Hayford hall - the greatest hall ever) to get some bananas and an orange. Much as I did not have any appetite for food, I peeled one banana, had a bit. But before, I finished munching the first banana, I had a call from home.

My younger sister (who comes immediately after me) called, and told me in a very depressed voice that our father had been rushed to hospital. But as she was telling me, she started waling ("no, he is dead; he is dead"). Then she hanged the call. I became distressed, as I realised she was forced to lie to me about our father’s death. I called my elder brother to know the drama that was unfolding. He only (constructively) lied to me that our father had been rushed to hospital. I was not convinced, so I called my maternal uncle. As an experienced man and chief, he told me my father had actually died.

It was then that I realised my father had died at home at age 65. He was not sick (at least not to our knowledge). For the first time, tears filled my eyes, as I asked my uncle where my father's remains had been deposited. When I heard the (police hospital) mortuary, I felt the urge to cry. But my uncle, sensing my voice was choked with an attempted cry, simply told me, "Kofi, you are a man. If you cry, what will your female siblings do?"

I caved in to his advice (of course, coupled with the fact I hardly cry) and decided to go teach. I rushed to the classroom and taught with all my energy as though death was not a killjoy. The students had a good time, as I taught and explained some difficult concepts to them. My boss, Mrs. Marie Barton-Odro was shocked about my courage.

It was when I went back to my hall and was informing my colleagues about my loss that I really felt the pain of my father's demise. Before the end of that day, I had chronicled three journalistic articles for publication. The following day, I wrote the tributes for my family (siblings and my mom). I also decided to reason through death closely.

It was the death of my father, who was my best friend, and Matilda, another great pal, that set me on the path of reading about death. I started reading what different religions say about death. I read about science and death. I was also interested in the writings of some independent religious gurus. I read the work of Mary Eddy Barker (the pioneer of Christian Science). I also immersed myself in the writings of mystics and atheists. The philosophical posturing of deists, agnostics, and skeptics were also fascinating.

In the end, I decided to reflect over the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. This came to me, because when I went to the mortuary to identify my father (before he was given to my family and subsequently transferred to our village), I saw lifeless bodies of 'human beings' of different shapes. The undertakers had no respect for the bodies. Some bodies were lying on each other on the floor. I courageously identified my father's remains when it (?) was brought to us. I sat in the hearse that carried my father's remains to the Abura Dunkwa mortuary before it was finally taken to my village (Assin Bosomadwe, Central Region of Ghana) two days later. And when we got to Abura Dunkwa mortuary, I helped the undertakers to convey the body to yet another morgue till the next two days (before burial). At the morgue in Abura Dunkwa, I spent about 10 minutes in the wee hours of the night, surveying through my father's remains.

My mom and some of her female relatives had taken a distance. It was at that moment that the Bible's narrative of the death and resurrection of Christ became real to me. The next two days, the body was brought home (to the village), and as male children, custom demanded that we bath our father to prepare him for lying-in-state. We got up at dawn and went and bathe him. Again, I surveyed though his lifeless body, hoping that he may mention my name. I pinched him, hoping that his body would jerk. I sometimes (mistakenly) splashed water on his face, thinking he would scream.

In the end, his body was lifeless. It was after we had bathed him that I decided to write about Jesus Christ. So, I published a journalistic article, 'Death, you and Jesus Christ' just when we had retreated to our rooms for the lying-in-state. I had read the works of the late Islamic polemist, Ahmed Deedat, and other quasi-scholars who had contested the facticity of Jesus' resurrection. I did a thorough review of my readings of these scholars and concluded that, indeed, Jesus' history is the only exception in the flow of history.

All the prophets, from Abraham through to Zachariah, tasted the sting of death and were conquered by it. All the other religious books confirm the existential reality of death. But NONE convincingly talks about the way out. NONE talks about any religious person conquering death. NONE talks about the powerlessness of death. And certainly, all of them were buried (aside Moses, who was taken care of by God). All of them succumbed to the burial mate. All them were conquered by death.

Some atheist philosophers also dismiss death as the extinction of life. This view was strongly articulated by Epicurus who said that, "If I am alive, I am not dead; if I am dead, I am not alive." Evolutionists also argue that death is part of the evolution of life. Mystics argue that death is an illusion. Others also think that death leads to a chain of reincarnation (karma and samsara).

But in the face of all these postulations, the Christian view is the most convincing. The Christian position is that death is not part of the flow of life. Death is an intrusion, and, therefore, an enemy (the killjoy). The Christian also teaches that death is as a result of sin. In conclusion, to overcome death, we need to overcome sin. Sadly, none of us is sinless, and so none of us has the answer to death. Throughout history, it is ONLY one person, who was/is sinless - the Lord Jesus Christ. It is, therefore, right that He alone conquered death. He alone has the antidote to death (He is Twereduampon Kwame). He alone can redeem human beings from our killjoy.

We could engage in intellectual argument over death. We could as well philosophise it. We could even split hairs over it. But we cannot deny the existential reality of death. We may disagree over the fate of the dead, but we will be foolhardy to assume that death is the end of it all. I once doubted Christianity. I once trashed Jesus Christ. I once challenged Christians over the historicity of Jesus Christ and all He did. But after years of reading and by God's grace, I came to the sobering conclusion that Jesus is who He is, and trusting Him, He offers salvation.

I sympathise with the family of Disu Kamaru (who passed on a day after he had tied the nuptial nut). It is deeply a sad situation. But it is also a true reflection of how we are not in control of life. I pray that the Holy Spirit, who comforts, will comfort his family, his wife (for just a day), and friends. I also pray for speedy recuperation for his widow.

In the end, we must trust Jesus Christ to be free from death, the killjoy. If we do so, we will see death as a gain, leading us to eternal bliss.

Satyagraha!!
Charles Prempeh ([email protected]), African University College of Communications, Accra