The dead do not disappear. They go to Asamando, and Asamando is not far, and it is not paradise or punishment.
Any funeral, which in Ghana is the largest event in social life.
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Asamando: the country of the ancestors
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Asamando: the country of the ancestors
The dead do not disappear. They go to Asamando, and Asamando is not far, and it is not paradise or punishment. It is the same kind of place as here — with towns, and markets, and status, and family — and the ones who are there are the nsamanfo, the ancestors, and they remain interested in what you are doing.
They are not all admitted. To become an ancestor you must have lived to a proper age, had children, kept your obligations, and died a good death. Those who died badly — by suicide, by certain accidents, by witchcraft, in childbirth in some traditions — and those who left no children have a harder passage, and the rites for them differ.
This is why the funeral matters so much. A Ghanaian funeral is not a private grief; it is a public act of transfer, moving a person from one community to the other, and it must be done properly or the person is stuck between. Hence the scale: the cloth, the crowds, the hired mourners, the brass band, the announcement posters, the second funeral held later when the family can afford to do it right. Hence the fantasy coffins of the Ga — a carpenter in Teshie will build you a coffin shaped like a fish, an aeroplane, a Nokia phone, a cocoa pod, a Bible, a shoe — because the coffin says what the person was, and they are arriving somewhere where that matters.
And afterwards they are still consulted. Libation is poured to them. Their stools are fed. They are told about the new baby and the new job. They are, in the strict sense, still members of the family — the ones who have moved.
If you visit Ghana. Any funeral, which in Ghana is the largest event in social life.
The dead do not disappear. They go to Asamando, and Asamando is not far, and it is not paradise or punishment. It is the same kind of place as here — with towns, and markets, and status, and family — and the ones who are there are the nsamanfo, the ancestors, and they remain interested in what you are doing.
They are not all admitted. To become an ancestor you must have lived to a proper age, had children, kept your obligations, and died a good death. Those who died badly — by suicide, by certain accidents, by witchcraft, in childbirth in some traditions — and those who left no children have a harder passage, and the rites for them differ.
This is why the funeral matters so much. A Ghanaian funeral is not a private grief; it is a public act of transfer, moving a person from one community to the other, and it must be done properly or the person is stuck between. Hence the scale: the cloth, the crowds, the hired mourners, the brass band, the announcement posters, the second funeral held later when the family can afford to do it right. Hence the fantasy coffins of the Ga — a carpenter in Teshie will build you a coffin shaped like a fish, an aeroplane, a Nokia phone, a cocoa pod, a Bible, a shoe — because the coffin says what the person was, and they are arriving somewhere where that matters.
And afterwards they are still consulted. Libation is poured to them. Their stools are fed. They are told about the new baby and the new job. They are, in the strict sense, still members of the family — the ones who have moved.