Dressed in a white polo shirt and white shorts, with nothing between his bare feet and the solid ground, Jordan stood with his legs slightly apart in a stance that suggested that he half-expected someone to try kicking his legs off the ground. Well, they could only try. Jordan had been in these situations for more than thirty years now, being the oldest man in Umuokwe kindred. With a glass of premium quality aromatic schnapp in his right hand and his left arm akimbo on his left hip, he looked down on the earth between his feet and summoned what he deemed the befitting expression for the situation facing him. It was a sad and solemn event and there was no reason anyone should see anything but that on his scarcely wrinkled face. His eyes were pale as almost the whole iris had been covered by pterygium, but he could see very clearly with it. He looked around him as if to ensure that he had an audience, then he looked at the casket in the open hearse and began to speak.
"My name is Jordan Ukpabi Ofuotula," he said, as if he needed an introduction then he paused as if to let it sink in.
"Madubuaja, we are not happy the way you have left us. You remember, on the 23rd of July, I asked you what was wrong with you and you told me that everything was good. I specifically confronted you about that allegation that you have been beating your wife when you drank and you told me that it was not true. I told you to put your family in order and you said, 'Consider it done'. That was what you told me," he said and looked around at the faces of the family members gathered around the hearse as if he wanted to see if he had a witness to the discussion he just mentioned. Apparently, there was no witness, so he poured out a libation from the shot of Schnapp in his right hand.
"If it is someone that did you in, you know that I, Jordan Ukpabi Ofuotula, would come out and fight the person to death. But I daresay that it was you, my brother, that killed yourself. We are not happy with this outcome and we ask the the Creator not to give us this kind of life again. If you must return to us, you must live a long, fruitful life. We do not want a short life marred by failure and tragedy. We, your brothers and sisters, have severed ties with you," he said and poured another libation on the ground. A little to his right was Okorie, a 21-year-old student of mathematics at the University. Okorie watched Jordan and listened to his speech with interest. Okorie was Madubuaja's much younger cousin who had the rare experience of watching him die.
As Okorie surveyed the crowd that was then gathered to pay their last respects to the dead man, he couldn't help but recall the activities of three days before that day when Madubuaja was still alive. Madubuaja lived with his family in the city of Abor, about one hundred kilometres from the village of Ogbala from which Okorie hailed. Okorie was studying in the city but he was on holidays and so returned home to help his mother, Amanda to run the family business. The people from his part of the country lived in clusters made up of people sharing common ancestral roots called kindred. These were not only members of the extended family but also members of other extended families who shared a common ancestor with other members of other extended families. This link was easily traceable because each kindred lived or had family members who lived in the ancestral home. Okorie lived in the Umuokwe ancestral home and his family building was adjacent to that of Madubuaja.
Four days before Jordan's libations, Madubuaja had returned to his hometown for the funeral ceremony of his aunt Angela. He had spent his youth with Angela who was a fabric trader. Madubuaja owed his knowledge of the business to her and her death weighed heavily on him. He sat alone on the stairs of his aunt's country home and watched the ceremony with a heavy heart. Aunt Angela died at the age of seventy-two years so her children were all adults and they were hell-bent on giving him a befitting funeral service. Alcoholic drinks were flowing all over the place and Madubuaja was desperate for a drink. He knew that alcohol was not good for his hypertension and the doctor had told him countless times but he could not resist. At first, he thought he could douse his thirst with water but that did not work. He went and sat on the chair at the front porch, away from all the craziness when his cousin Onyekachi walked out of the house with a crate containing twelve bottles of Heineken.
"Is that for me?" Madubuaja joked.
"Sure," Onyekachi responded and placed the crate of beer beside Madubuaja, then returned to the house to carry another crate before Madubuaja could say he was only joking. Madubuaja starred at the crate of beer for a long time before he decided to take just a bottle. But he knew he was kidding himself because experience had taught once he had one, he could never stop. By the time the funeral wound up, there was no bottle of beer in the crate beside Madubuaja. Okorie's mother, Amanda stumbled upon him as she left the funeral and they greeted each other as usual. She would have sworn that he had nothing to do with the empty bottles beside him except for the hiccup he was having. From her training as a military nurse and her experience dispensing medicine for the local pharmacy, she knew that his blood pressure was around the region of 175/110 mmHg. Nobody knew her as someone qualified to offer such a diagnosis but she could not keep quiet. So she went to John, Madubuaja's younger brother and pointed out to him that his brother was in a bad way and might be needing a medical emergency. John was no disposed to add any more on the list of things he had to do so he looked at his brother and found a way to convince himself that he did not look so bad.
It was the morning after the funeral and Okorie had just got up from sleep and walked past Madubuaja's family home and noticed the door was ajar. He walked a little closer and saw the man lying on the sitting room couch with vomit all over the floor.
"Good morning, sir," he greeted but the man did not move.
"Sir?"
Madubuaja raised his head and looked at him blankly.
"Prof," he called out. Okorie realized that there was something wrong because, Prof was the name Madubuaja called Okorie's brother, Charles and he could always tell them apart.
"Yes, sir," Okorie answered, notwithstanding.
"I need medicine for fever, please," he said.
"Ok, sir," Okorie said and rushed to talk to his mother.
Amanda, Okorie's mother was normally a helpful person but she was different that morning. While Okorie fretted about taking care of the sick man, Amanda insisted that there was nothing he could do for her. Okorie did not know this at the time but his mother was worried that he might be accused of killing the man if he died the way she suspected he would. So she sent Okorie to visit the homes of the other family members so they could arrange to take him to hospital. It was a Sunday morning and those who had not gone to church insisted they were running late and could not spare the time to take care of their ailing brother. Okorie was amazed. He was not a religious person but he knew that treating the sick man was more important than attending a church service. Perhaps, his problem was that he did not go to church as much as he should. After going around the homes of Madubuaja's relatives, Okorie was exhausted, but he had to do something for the man. So he took his mother's sphygmomanometer and went to the man's sitting room. He checked his blood pressure and found it just a little above 180/110 mmHg. After checking, the man asked for water. He went to report his finding to his mother and possibly receive advice on how to proceed.
"It is a wonder he is still breathing," she said. "There is nothing you can do for him. How about the people you want to inform?"
"They are all busy with church and other things."
By the time Okorie returned with the glass of water that Madubuaja had asked for, he found the sick man in an awkward position, with his wrist placed on top of the couch hand, facing the wall. Okorie stopped at the door. He just knew there was something wrong. From where he stood, he called out but the man did not move. That was his first time in such a situation. He ran back to his house to call on his brother. He did not know what he expected from Charles because Charles was squeamish about most things.
"Madubuaja is not moving. I think he may be dead," Okorie informed Charles who was preparing breakfast of curry puff.
"He was alive a few minutes ago," Charles replied. "He couldn't possibly be dead. Maybe he just fainted."
Okorie thought about that idea for a few moments. He had never heard of a man who was lying on a bed fainting, but it was better than being dead and at the time, that was more acceptable. He had hoped that his brother would accompany him back to the man but, true to character, he did not. Okorie returned to the room and called out to the man. Still, there was no answer.
"He is still not answering his name," he returned and informed Charles.
"Okay, see what you have to do: touch his wrist and see if he is still alive for sure," he suggested as he placed the curry puffs in the oven.
Okorie returned and stood at the door for a few moments, gathering his courage. Then he rigidly walked into the room with every one of his senses high strung. He went to the couch and bent down to touch the man's hand. Even though he had no previous experience checking whether or not a person was alive, he did not need a second opinion as soon as he touched that hand. It was cold, stiff and completely lifeless. It was clear that there was no circulation in that body. Madubuaja was dead and there was nothing Okorie could do for him. He walked out of the room with his mother's sphygmomanometer and latched the door from the outside.
Standing outside their ancestral home in the presence of more than a hundred people, all gathered to pay their respects to the dead man, the irony was not lost on him that just a few days ago, the same man was sick and needed an emergency and there was none so disposed to lend him a helping hand. There were women grieving in some corners, men arguing about seniority and how they should be accorded more respect. Jordan Ukpabi Ofuotula was on his second glass of aromatic Schnapp, offering prayers to his ancestors. Okorie was disgusted with the utter lack of care with which his relatives had handled the illness and death of Madubuaja but, being so young, it was not his place to say. His only wish was to put the man in the ground against whatever odds existed so that he could get on with his life. He no longer felt bad for Madubuaja. In his estimation, he did what he could for the man. Since he was gone, it was time to move on.
The remains of Madubuaja was carried into his sitting room that had been decorated with white curtains and purple ribbons. There, the elders of the family stood around the open casket to ensure that the body that was returned from the morgue to them was indeed their kin's. More libations were offered, all condemning the untimely death of Madubuaja, all asking for long life for the living. Okorie stood in one corner and thought how ironical it was that a man named Madu bu aja meaning Man is but soil was about to be committed to the earth and all the elders had nothing to say but complaints and condemnation.
Somehow, Okorie was of a different opinion: Man should become intimately acquainted with his mortality and constantly remind himself that life on earth is fleeting, fragile and surprisingly tenuous. In his thinking, the only thing that counts in life is the love that we show to each other while we are alive; the rest is commentary. But he had to admit, in spite of himself that human beings like their commentary. So he waited patiently until the elders were done and the body was ready to be lowered into the ground. He and some of the other youth in the venue lifted the casket and lowered it into the grave. He then washed his hands and went home to continue living.
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