I read a post by 
You know how it is when you hear of things that happen to others and you think to yourself: can't happen to me/no one would try that kind of thing with me/ won't ever take that nonsense? Well, that was my mindset as I grew up whenever I heard of widows being made to go through harrowing experiences just because they lost their husbands.
I grew up fairly well protected from such things because my parents didn't have us in their tribal place, and they didn't get involved with many customs/traditions, so in a way we were generally free from cultural practises harmful or otherwise. For example, none of us (5 daughters) were circumcised but 3 of us had tribal marks hastily done on our young cheeks to set us apart from the Igbos living in the North who were being attacked and killed during the pogrom preceding the Nigerian civil war. I digress...
I got married to my friend in 1983. Didn't know much about his tribe. He was the first born of 8 or 9 sired by his late traditional chief father. He wasn't someone given to the rules and restrictions of culture/tradition, believing that each human should have freedom to chose how to live life. His people were another matter!
In September 2007, a few days to his 51st birthday and our silver wedding anniversary, he ups and dies on me after a brief illness. He'd always been a healthy person, hardly if ever sick. A few times when I'd offered medication for headache or some small ailment, he'd say to me: "I didn't marry you because you are a nurse." Like play like play, as we say in Nigeria, what started out in May that year as just a lowgrade fever and general malaise would not let up, and worsened despite medical care. The best of consultants in the teaching hospital where I work were on hand to attend him. They ran all manner of tests including a bone marrow tap. He was diagnosed with Erythroleukemia. Between tending him, the home anwd doing my job, I was run to a frazzle. One day when I was feverish and vomiting, he said to me: "Please stay strong. Don't fall sick...the 2 of us cannot afford to be hospitalised." I cannot recount all that took place. In the midst of it all, there were great kindnesses shown to us from unexpected quarters, while those we thought would be there for us turned aloof or lukewarm. Finally, the man died. To say I was gutted would be an understatement.
I remember being asked by one of my brothers-in-law on the phone within the hour of Patrick's death what I did to his senior brother! While the burial plans were ongoing, his cousin came by and told me not to worry about any rituals for the dead, that he'd spoken to the family to not bother me with them, knowing how committed a christian I am, and knowing how little my husband himself cared about such things. Did I believe him? Maybe not, because he and my sibblings-in-law weren't there for us when Patrick was ill and hospitalised...only the immediate younger brother (now head of the family) came to visit, and was always saying strange discouraging things like: too young to die/what a pity/etc! I remember feeling the weight of the world upon my shoulders, I remember asking God why He allowed Patrick to die at such a young age.
My church and family were totally there for me but couldn't return him to life! All the visits, phone calls and condolences were like so much noise...I was always screaming inside, but mute externally.
Then came the week of his burial, the week of the valley of decision...