It was a Friday evening when I received an e-flyer concerning the internment of EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh on the following day. A gallant Soldier I have known through the eyes of his sons which I have written about in various episodes. I never believed his demised even though I was told by a reliable source–his own son. All I know was that concrete jungles dont fall. This was the dilemma of the skeptism. So, I decided to follow the cats most innate ability–curiosity. And to be frank, it was my first time attending funerals of a sort. And if it was my first, why wouldn’t it be that of EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh?
Even though I’ve planned this journey for a long time now in my head, tumbling and summertumbling in my mind, the twisted potholes, the sharp curves, and coiling roads to the Kroboland. I reach out to a friend who quickly confirmed he will be going too. A kind of relief. A relief more timely. These kinds of reliefs relieve mental torture faster than pain killers. We scheduled the following morning for the journey. Out of a blue, I decided to call to confirm the time of departure, venue, and otherwise of our going to the funeral. Thats when I was told he had a little hitch. He had hit a young girl to pulp and was attending to her at the hospital. Luckily, everything was sorted before the cock could give its first crow.
The morning slowly crawled in as though it didn’t want to come at all. Well, the long awaited wait was over. A new arrangement was quickly put in place to attend the funeral. The venue of the funeral was scheduled at Krobo-Adumase–few kilometers away from Somanya. I stepped out through an alley, created by the maze of buildings on Madina-Redco-Lighthouse. On the Bus stop, I stood waiting for the Assin Fosu cohort to pick me up for the journey. In about five minutes, I was on the highway towards Adenta alongside my arranged carriers. And this was it. A journey into the Kroboland.
Few spooning, turning, and gassing got us to the Adenta barrier, where another individual joined the cohort with his scintillating black-all attire. A symbolism of mourning in Ghana. If not in black, then its red or red molten black or white and black. A sharp contrast that existed between the Islamic funeral culture and the traditional cum Christian funeral culture is their attire. The Muslim funeral culture has no specific attire or color; hence all colors and attires are welcomed.
This has opened another vulnerability up. I have faced dressing challenges in the past. But not to this extent. I knew I have to wear a dress that resonates with the occasion; Black or Red. My mum had already banned me from all black attire yesteryears. I’ve equally taken exception to all red attire too. A dilemma ensued. Yet, I was supposed to standout without overshadowing others, to blend in but not fade away. I knew I will be criticized if I was perceived as being showy and high end, and I’d be criticised for being too casual either. Hence I have to mix it up.
Out of bafflement, I came out in all green outfit. The designs at the front which depicted comfort and containment particularly motivated my choice; to comfort the bereaved and contained their plight. I am aware that green means growth–continuous growth. However, black is a symbol of mourning which the bereaved smartly wore. Hence I comforted their mourning at one end and growth on the other side. Green has combined all the tenets of human nature. In as much as we are born, growth set in, and then, finally departure. This is the symbolism of the color Green. I became comfortable in my outfit.
A few pleasantries were exchanged as the fast pace car dribbled past a parked traffic, heading of the meandered road into the Ayi Mensa enclave. After few twist and turns, the car was again careering towards Frafraha to Dodowa. We were soon out of Dodowa as silence slipped through the little window of the driver’s side windscreen. The magnanimous cool winds of Eastern Region began slapping on our fleshy jaws in an early air conditioned bus. Soberly eyes, fewer giggles, and throbbing feets that has shown fatigued from an unending journey from Assin Fosu towards Krobo-Adumase; little stretches here and there to shirk off fatigue like a crow beating by a morning dew.
Somanya, the most sought after town, soon appeared before us–as though commanded by the aura of the uniformed man controlling the steering wheel. The Mango vegetation, slowly given up for cement and concrete jungles at the peering sight of the only University of Environment and Sustainable Development in Ghana at a time when climate change is a top priority in the world, couldn’t have eluded our sight, the giant tables showcasing mango fruits on the roadside, and the beautifully carved potholes carefully placed at the middle of the road couldn’t have eluded our eyes. The driver, though new to the road as shown in his timeously meander, drove through the enegetic, rambunctious and eminent Somanya Township to Krobo Adumasi.
On our way up the hill of destiny, where EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh was lonely laid at the middle of a crowd, guarded by an flock of military at the north spearheaded by a lead Pastor; a volcano of black and red dresses under an ever present blue canopy to the West; a vociferous group seated at the south responding well to all the songs raised; the East was a parade of military vehicles bidding a final farewell to one of its own occupants. This was the sight that psyched me up for the reality. As we deboarded one after the other, the cohort silently acquaint themselves with the scene as the sacred prayer of the Pastor came in and out of our ears as we got ourselves seats behind the southern crowd.
The prayers was soon finished by the Lead Pastor. The throng grasped themsleves for the final departure of EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh to his final internment. Words of the Lead Pastor struck me hard, realisation dawned, and I felt the blow as though he just died. I became motionless, speechless and actionless as my cohort watched on haplessly.
Songs blasted through the giant speakers as the crowd rose on their feet. Music, they say, with tunes, delights the ear. Nonetheless, this was nothing that could delight the ear. It only created furrows connected to the land of the ancestors. More like a a dirge. And dirges create sorrow and more sorrow; solemnity.
However, on the extreme north, sharp descending into the main field, the young military men jumped from left to right, back and forth as the Lead Pastor cautioned “EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh was once like you, jumping up and down, but today, he’s laid motionless, unable to move a limb not to talk of jumping. You (young Soldiers) should take a cue from it.” A statement that struck me harder than any bullet could have. WORDS!!
I’ve always insisted that words have different meaning to different people at different times and in different circumstances. If this was said in a place where there was no mortal remains in the caliber of military–the human concrete jungles in our midst who cut down softer humans in the empire to erect only the stronger race as focal points just as what is happening with the mango plantation at the forefront of the University of Environment and Sustainable Development–the words wouldn’t have made meaning. These words were so powerful and immaculate to ignore at any given instance of the funeral. This is where it occured to me that even concrete jungles falls.
The Military gun salute passed by, followed by a quadruple female soldiers laid a ribbons, and the parade of military vehicles rearranged themselves to convey the mortal remains of EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh to it final internment. The group of soldiers matched in, enegetic yet solemn, gave a daunting salute, and picked the casket on their shoulders. They matched to the Military ambulance anxiously waiting to convey a casket carrying a heavy mortal remnant of a retired soldier. It was here that I longed to die as a soldier, at least for the first time in my hasty dream.
As the military convey the mortal remnants of EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh for final internment, the gunshots took over the atmosphere, accompanying the footsteps of a gallant throbs from the Soldiers carrying the casket. The Ambulance, followed by the throng to the cemetery. About half a hour later, the throng that went to the cemetery had returned. He’s been buried. I took a deep breath. Space must surely not bury you under the deep sludge of sand; neither could time tick you away; and certainly, history must not forget you, old soldier, father and mentor.
Eating and drinking ensued; Merriment.
I stood for a while imagining–at one point man was the most powerful thing on earth and another point, man is the solemn object. A mixed feeling ensued. A feeling I’ve felt before. Yet the most interesting aspect was whether to die as powerful or sober man. Whatever the case, man must die anyhow anywhere. Now, a concrete jungle has fallen. Truly it has.
I remember when I was young and without experience I imagined that the story of the land is easy, that one could just get up and tell it. But that is not always so. True, we all have our little scraps of tale bubbling in us. But what we tell is like the middle of a mighty boa which a foolish hunter mistakes for a tree trunk and settles upon to take his snuff. Out of naivety, I lay into my little tale with wild eyes and vigorous tongue. But the reality is always different.
This was it. My first attendance of a traditional cum Christian funeral. And it happens to be a legendary great known through the eyes of his children: EX SWO Samuel Tekpe Atteh.
Rest Well Legend.
Rest Well Soldier.
Rest Well Daddy.
Da Yie.
By Al-Latif Kambo-Naa.