Who Owns the Dead Body

Dear God,

Brace yourself, I am on a controversial lane. I have carried the ball into your spiritual 18. Today, I want to ask you a critical question?

The rain in the villages doesn’t just fall; it deliberates. It settles into the red earth of the compound, turning the ancestral soil into a thick, stubborn red paste that clings to the expensive Italian leather shoes of us city-dwellers plus the dusty sandals of the local villagers alike.

I sat under the canopy, watching Diane’s family grief (as if I was watching a football match). In this arena, the ball wasn’t being kicked by athletes, but by two formidable titans:” Blood” and “Religion”. Dad, I am not joking, this is like the hundredth times I have seen or heard this scene play out. And this raises the million-dollar question. A question that hangs in the humid air, more pungent than the scent of the jollof rice being stirred in giant cast-iron pots at the back of the compound: Who owns the dead?

My friend, Diane, had just lost her mum and the atmosphere shifted from mourning to a cold, bureaucratic negotiation between her family and the church. During the meeting, they spoke of her mother as if she were a property title currently in probate.

“You cannot read the first lesson,” the Secretary announced, his voice as dry as the harmattan air.

“I beg your pardon?” Diane asked. “I am her child. I am the one who held her hand when the monitor flatlined. I am the one who whispered her name into the silence.”

“But you are not a practicing Catholic,” he countered, adjusting his glasses. “The liturgy is sacred. Only those with the right ‘faith’ can participate. It is the Law.”

I leaned back, my mind spinning. I looked at the crucifix on the wall and wondered: Is there really a bouncer at the Gates of Heaven, checking baptismal cards? Will the Heavens reject this woman if her “prodigal” child reads a verse from Isaiah? Would God deny her mum entry because of her daughter’s denomination?”

I could feel the pain gather in my friend’s eyes. Imagine being treated like a stranger at your own dinner table. Religion, in its quest for order, had built a wall where there should have been a bridge.

This is not exclusively a catholic structure, Dad, can you imagine that during the burial of one of the oldest women in our family, a woman we fondly called “Mamao”, deeply loved by everyone. The Anglican Priest and his entire crew (plus choir) walked out of the service of song because one of the local miscreants disobeyed him. (Dad, I kid you not, in the beginning of the service of songs, they packed and left and did not conduct a full service despite the children’s dedication to the church). Which brings me to another question, when does a clergy’s ego override his function as a servant of God? At what point do they draw the line between their pride and service?

Wait for it, I am not done yet, I warned you to brace yourself, right?

“Who owns the dead body?” asked Elder Chukwudi, (the head of Diane’s family) his voice trembling with both wisdom and weariness. “Is it the family, whose blood runs in the veins of the departed? Or the church, whose prayers claim to guide the soul to heaven?”

The people murmured. Some argued toward the family, others toward the church. And so began a dialogue that would echo across generations.

Uche, (Diane’s Cousin) stood up. His brother had been buried the previous year, and the memory was still raw.

“When my brother Okey died,” he began, “The church refused to open his casket for us because of the wife. The church aligned with the wife against the family because she is of their faith”

The family sighed in bitterness. Their pain was palpable.

“Blood is blood,” Uche continued. “The church may pray, but it is the family that carries the scars of grief. Shouldn’t the family decide how their loved one is laid to rest?”

Father Dominic, the new parish priest, rose slowly. His cassock swayed as though it carried centuries of tradition.

“Elders and people,” he said gently, “the church does not claim ownership of the body. We claim stewardship of the soul. Our rituals are not meant to exclude, but to preserve the sanctity of faith. When a Catholic dies, the church ensures that the burial aligns with doctrine, so the soul journeys rightly.”

“But Father,” interrupted Aunty Nkechi from the back, “does doctrine comfort the crying children? Does ritual wipe the tears of a widow? Sometimes, your rules feel like chains on our grief.”

Father Dominic paused. “Perhaps,” he admitted, “we have sometimes forgotten compassion in our zeal for tradition.”

The debate grew louder. Elder Chukwudi raised his staff to restore order.

“In Igbo land,” he said, “burial is family business. The eldest son takes charge, the lineage gathers, and he laid to the ancestors. The church came later, and now both traditions wrestle for control. But must they wrestle? Can they not dance together?”

A witty voice from the crowd added, “Dance together? Hah! More like two drummers beating different rhythms at the same funeral!”

Laughter broke the tension, but the truth lingered. Families felt sidelined, churches felt duty-bound, and the dead lay silent, caught between two worlds.

Uche turned to Father Dominic. “Father, let me ask plainly. If the family wants one thing and the church insists on another, who should prevail?”

Father Dominic sighed. “The church must uphold its faith. But perhaps the family should have the louder voice. After all, grief belongs to them.”

“Thank you”, shouted Chief Onuma, their neighbour.

“Tell Them oh”, insisted Mama Udenma his wife.

Elder Chukwudi leaned forward, his eyes cutting through the gathering. “Then let us agree: the church is not the executioner, but the guide. The family owns the body; the church shepherds the soul. One without the other is incomplete.”

Everyone was quiet, but not the kind of silence that comes from anger. It was the silence of people thinking, heads tilted, brows furrowed, lips pursed as though chewing on kola nuts. Out of that silence, ideas began to bubble up like palm wine frothing in a calabash.

Aunty Nkechi cleared her throat. “Look, why would families and churches keep dragging each other like goats at a market, why not just sit down together? Form a committee. Decisions should be shared, not imposed. After all, even yam and beans taste better when cooked together.”

The family cheered. Aunty Nkechi was well known for her witty assertiveness.

Elder Chukwudi tapped his staff. “True. And let’s not forget bloodlines. The family’s voice must be loudest when it comes to physical arrangements, where the body lies, who speaks, who reads what, what rites are performed. The church should advise, not dictate. You can’t tell a man how to bury his own father as though you bought the coffin yourself.”

Father Dominic smiled wryly. “Fair enough.

Mama Udenma stood and raised her hands as if in prayers and said: “And let me also add that priests and pastors of churches must remember grief is human before it is doctrinal. Comfort should outweigh ceremony. If a widow is crying, don’t silence her, if the family is angry, mediate with compassion not Latin chants or spiritual quotes”.

“I agree, the Priest said, Sometimes, a hug preaches louder than a sermon.”

“God bless you, Father”, shouted Mr Ibezue. Father Dominic smiled at him.

Aunty Nkechi, never one to miss a punchline, added, “And when families fight among themselves, because let’s be honest, we do, let the church act as referee, not both referee and player. Mediate, don’t dominate. Otherwise, you’ll end up both blowing the whistle and scoring the goal.”

The laughter that followed was hearty, but beneath it was a sense of relief. For once, the conversation wasn’t about who was right or wrong, but about how both sides could walk together without stepping on each other’s toes.

Just as the families began to settle, Uncle Emeka rose, adjusting his cap with the authority of tradition. “Let us not forget,” he declared, “that in our culture, the extended family is the backbone of burial rites. The lineage must gather, the elders must decide. A son cannot bury his father alone as though the rest of us are spectators. The body belongs to the clan, not just the nuclear family.”

Uche, still nursing the emotional wounds they inflicted on him during his brother’s burial, shot back with a wry smile. “Uncle, with respect, when Okey was alive, it was us, the immediate family, who cared for him, paid his hospital bills. Now that he’s gone, suddenly everyone is chairman of the burial committee. Where were you when the bills were piling up?”

The people chuckled nervously.

Father Dominic cleared his throat. “Perhaps this is where the church can help. Not as ruler, but as referee as madam Nkechi said. When families clash, the church can mediate. We can remind everyone that burial is not a competition of authority, but a moment of unity. The immediate family should lead, because they carry the deepest grief. But the extended family should be carried along with respect, for they carry the heritage.”

“This our new Father is a good man,” some of the family members chorused.

Aunty Nkechi, never missing a chance for wit, added, “So, Father, you’re saying the immediate family holds the steering wheel, but the extended family sits in the back seat, singing along? Fine, but let them not grab the wheel when the car is moving oh, Tell them oh!”

The laughter was loud, but the wisdom was clear. The church’s role was not to dictate, but to balance. To ensure the immediate family’s grief was respected, while the extended family’s traditions were acknowledged. To turn quarrels into conversations.

The family and the church members were happy as they dispersed. Some lingered to greet the new parish priest that has come to the village with deep respect for the people and their tradition. They believed that Chief Mrs Igbokwe’s burial will be a great one as everyone was singing from one hymn book. At last Diane can bury her mum in peace.

Hmmn, my Lord, the truth be told: You own the soul, we own the memories, and together we must honour both. Teach us to bury with compassion, not competition. Teach us to respect tradition without trampling love. And teach us that the true spirit of Christianity is inclusiveness…….whatever doctrine or denomination.

And Lord, when my time comes, let my family, my clan, and my church dance together, not wrestle. Let everyone I have loved and loved me be allowed to be part of laying me to rest, no matter their belief or denomination. In fact, let my enemies (if I still have any) be allowed to come too, to see that I finally escaped them to heaven……

This is your daughter, I am checking in.

Who Owns the Dead Body