The Finest

The words write themselves
All of the things he was
The finest for all of us

Peerless yet unassuming
And a hard act to follow
The finest undeniably

No one worked harder
Yet it was always with such ease
The finest reliably

Tasteful and self contained
The tone, exquisitely poised
The finest most graciously

A twinkle in the eye
Delightful conversations
The finest effortlessly

The strategy was to redirect fools
Quiet laughter amidst this tolerance
The finest ever so gently

Reading widely, education was paramount
His learning had no boundaries
The finest, he charted new territory

In search of the new, an early adopter
But yearning for what actually worked
The finest, his passion for discovery

Bound in faith for all of us, a firm believer in family
A gift of love and concern, a trailblazer for our community
The finest spirit, he gave generously

The words write themselves
All of the things he was
We hold on to the memories

The finest we've known
The finest we've seen
The finest we'll remember

After Samuel Ofosu-Amaah

The Finest, a playlist

A soundtrack to this note (spotify version)

• Best by Far by Omar
• The Finest by S.O.S. Band
• A Wonderful Guy by Oscar Peterson & Milt Jackson
• I Was Doing All Right by Dexter Gordon
• Easy by Al Jarreau
• Sparkle by Cameo
• The Backbone by Dexter Gordon

File under: obituary, family, appreciation, personal, memory, grief, mourning, virtuosity, poetry, toli

Writing log: January 29, 2023

This Thief

There's no good way to receive bad news
And it is a feature of grief
That it catches you unawares
Cuts your soul, plunging deep

A phone call
One-handed, you answer
While marinating the meat

Raw chicken
Primal
Scream

A dear one has been stolen from you by this thief


...

This thief returns to the scene of the crime
No different in this, than other criminals
A repeat offender though, the gods gave up on reform
Threw their hands up at this incorrigible burglar
As if to get an idea for the next heist
There's always a target of opportunity
Even when the authorities are hot on the trail
Acting unconcerned, for the work is thrilling
Funeral minded, this thief, and comfortable hiding in plain sight
Secure in the knowledge there's no need for a mask on the face
Even while out on bail, the crime spree continues apace
Stripping bare all certainties, impressing the inevitability of death
This thief loots and pillages, crown jewels, a desecration
Faith and solace in the aftermath, grasping for soul insurance
Yet there's no salving the wounds, there's no consolation
Memories are the only thing the victims have left


For Uncle Ofosu

See previously The Laws of Grief


File under: grief, culture, observation, perception, social, memory, life, mourning, poetry, loss, Observers are worried, Social Living, Things Fall Apart, toli

Writing log: January 21, 2023

Giant Checks

"The Prime Minister then handed out giant checks to the bereaved
A sign, he said, that the state would take care of those who have lost so much"

— Thailand nursery attack (BBC report, October 7, 2022)

Giant checks, devoid of meaning
Thoughts and prayers, the theater of grief
A parade of penance and ritual tributes

Giant checks, post-facto regret
Consolation payments, the language of impotence
The wages of acceptable loss

Giant checks, base calculations of uniformed men
Seasoned with blood, whither the monopoly of violence?
Witness the performance of authority

Giant checks to the bereaved, a duty of care
Not to mention the provision of little urns and coffins
A fine display, the toll unbearable, the final indignities

Giant checks, props for a national calamity
The sobbing and shrieks, a symphony of despair
An unending stillness in others, more worrying are these vacant stares

Giant checks, empty gestures
Roused by tragedy, the coup maker's show of concern
Balm for communal numbness

Giant checks, strictly by the numbers
Effigies erected to solace, pain underwritten in large print
Sorrow in sans-serif and block letters

Giant checks disbursed in the aftermath of death
Survivor's guilt by way of comfort and healing
Mandatory compensation for those still breathing

Giant checks, lottery winners
A failure to protect, pageantry in the wake of slaughter
This too could happen to you

Giant Checks, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Check out your Mind by Curtis Mayfield
• King of Sorrow by Sade
• Can't buy me by Femi Kuti
• Sorrow, Tears and Blood by Fela Kuti
• Meaningless Money by Kuber Bhaskar
• Sorrow doesn't Resurrect by Ark Patrol

Bonus beats: Sorry ain't enough by Sault

See previously: Ritual Tributes and Action Items

File under: language, hatchet job, outrage, satire, violence, blood, theatre, Thailand, military, crime, humour, culture, observation, perception, grief, mourning, Observers are worried, Buyer's Remorse, poetry, toli

Writing log. October 7, 2022

Final Journey

Blinking lights, funeral procession
The police escort slowly led the way
The motorbike rider up front occasionally blowing the horn
The long parade of cars followed from Mission funeral home

Frustrated. A couple of stragglers, delayed by a red light
Stopped and faced the onlooker at the crosswalk
Eyes red after the earlier mourning
Newfangled mask pulled under the chin

In that minute, a wordless exchange
A head nod, then a gesture to the heart
A smile, and a head nod in return
Solidarity
The light changed, they revved to catch up
Onward to the last rites at the cemetery

See previously: The Laws of Grief

This note is part of a series: In a covidious time.

File under: culture, observation, Austin, life, mourning, grief, Small Things, poetry, covidious, toli

Writing log. April 24, 2022

Solemnity Premiums

Buried on Ash Wednesday, the reading was from Revelations
"Come", said the preacher, the message was an invitation
But to the funeral goers, the reference to Lent was no consolation
When in the throes of grief, there's only frustration
We sang Abide With Me, but there was no returning
For the loss was so keenly felt, it was all consuming

The tributes were read, brief and poignant
She'd trained us well, we were considerate
No one lost composure, the mask didn't slip
This was in Bristol, after all, stiff upper lip
Thousands of miles from home, with a virtual audience to boot
All of us dressed tidily in the most sober of black suits

Something was missing, however, it was the sounds of cries
If we were back in Ghana, clearly not a single eye would be dry
Imagine! The queen of Makola market,
   a woman so redoubtable
We were duty bound to celebrate her life
   by causing good trouble
To make a scene, bassa bassa,
   to weep uncontrollably on the side
For when your heart is so rendered,
   there is no keeping the soul quiet

Solemnity Premiums, a playlist

A stiff upper lip soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Please Don't Make Me Cry by UB40
• Keep it Inside by Cherrelle
• One Last Cry by Brian McKnight
• All Cried Out by Alison Moyet
• Warriors Don't Cry by Beres Hammond

See previously: Another Zoom Funeral

After Auntie Naa Abia Mary Mould

This note is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: grief, funeral, culture, observation, perception, displacement, mourning, family, loss, Ghana, Africa, poetry, covidious, toli

Writing log: March 10, 2022

Quality of Numbness

Please ensure that you're in the right tasting environment
Pleasant conditions are preferable for maximum enjoyment
Open yourself up to the experience of bearing witness
Dress casually to appreciate the quality of numbness

Sight evaluation is the first order of business
You'll learn how to describe the ingredients of catharsis
Start with a top view,
   examine the density saturation of the substance
Stare closely for a few seconds
   to imbue the essence of the absence

Then, visual inspection from a side angle,
   observe the color of shock
The oblique viewpoint will gather up all signs of discomfort
Over time, you'll recognize the shades
   that are said to be characteristic
The burden of the shadows can overwhelm,
   the way they move is mystic

Sip slowly, don't swallow unease as your liquid companion
Taste for yourself the astringency of alienation
Mature vintages will often leave you numb in contemplation
A result, it is said, of the intense period of fermentation

Savor the aromas of regret, the heavy burden of loss
Let the waves of disbelief wash over you, do not resist
Caution, take heed of spontaneous outbursts of cynicism
A rout of the soul often dampens one's initial enthusiasm

Scents are next on the agenda,
   but be mindful of your surroundings
With unbounded grief, you're apt to wallow in nostalgia
   and its misgivings
Try not to miss the cues,
   musty glasses are a sure sign of resignation
There is no simple formula,
   doubt can be balanced by complete immersion

Swirling around the tongue,
   you'll discover the flavor that lingers
It's much like a social disease
   this sense of communal numbness
After a taste of deficiency,
   you may find satisfaction ever elusive
Off kilter, the quality of numbness ensures a satisfying finish

Numb, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Numb by Portishead
• Numb by Pet Shop Boys
• Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd
• Down Here Below by Abbey Lincoln
• I'll Walk Alone by Nancy Wilson
• Numb by Lewis Taylor
  An album length treatment of the quality of numbness. What the pandemic has wrought

See previously: Rhythm of Loss and The Laws of Grief

This note is part of a series: In a covidious time.

File under: grief, culture, observation, perception, social, life, mourning, covidious, poetry, toli

Writing log: January 22, 2022

Goody Two Shoes

People who use the word stakeholders with serious intent
Said with a raised, furrowed brow of discernment

People who want to be there for you, to be your ally
And look, for all intents and purposes, as if they're about to cry

People who want to step out of their comfort zone
Who want you to know that you don't face this struggle alone

People who live to create that shared, teachable moment
Who need us to stand together, and face the challenge of the present

People who could never feel your pain,
   and are scared to transgress boundaries
Who recognize the terrible legacy,
   and those matters of historical iniquities

People who want to atone for the system's structural inequality
Who seek to address important matters of diversity and justice

People more liberal than thou, more ethical than thou
Who are more caring, more thoughtful than thou

People who are empathy personified
Who point to all the common ground you share

People who are similarly, if not more, outraged
Who are deeply concerned by the situation, and, above all, who care

...

I'm tired. Sometimes it's best to keep mum.

I see you. Sometimes it pays to just listen.

I hear you. You don't need to relieve your anxiety for my benefit, nor indeed for yours.

I'm tired. I can hardly summon up the energy to don the mask of concern.

I'm tired. The mask of civility I wear already weighs a ton.

This country will chew you up, drop you for nothing, we both know this.

Today's atrocity joins a long line of rank murder and injustice.

I'm tired. As you can see, my skin is no protection.

I'm tired. Rather it's the reverse, an oft fatal affliction.

I'm tired. And remember, my children have to walk in these same frayed shoes.

My friend, give me a minute, bear with me, Goody Two Shoes.

Just one moment, a little space. Please. Just a few minutes for mourning.

I'm tired. Internally displaced. It really doesn't bear contemplating.

After the killing of Daunte Wright.

Tired, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note. Musical relief of sorts. (spotify version)

• Tired Little One by Alice Russell
• Then I'll be Tired of You by Stanley Turrentine
• Tired by Kelly Price
• Born Tired by Jhené Aiko
• So Tired by Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers
• I'm Tired by D.O.7. Shirati Jazz

...

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

See previously: Defensive Accounting

File under: culture, observation, humour, perception, empathy, satire, race, liberal, concern, sympathy, strategy, grief, mourning, USA, violence, alienation, displacement, immigration, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: April 13, 2021

Doves

He was so certain of himself that he would sing misheard lyrics with the conviction of the new convert.

Maybe I'm just like my father twofold

When you pointed out that he was substituting a parental profligacy for boldness, he would scoff and continue:

This is what is sounds like, when the doves fly

The son a King, he was a prince who wrote his own lyrics. Nevermind the printed label on the vinyl or the record cover, it was the sound of doves flying. I shook my head. He laughed, case closed, argument over. I will miss you my brother.

...

Growing up, he'd heard that the best jockeys needed to learn how to fall "properly" to lose their fear of failure. Somehow the number ten was attached to that anecdote. Thus it was resolved, this 6 year old provoked every horse to throw him to get it over with.

My first horse riding lessons were thus quite an ordeal as this my brother proceeded with his plan and even encouraged me to get on with the falling - I demurred. He celebrated when he reached the tenth fall, he was going to be the best.

He was forever disappointed that he grew too tall and too athletic, his body too magnificent a specimen to be a jockey. What remained was this urge for speed, this will to fly where others wouldn't. I will miss you my brother.

...

We discovered the baby dove in our driveway one Sunday morning, limp, immobile and near death - indeed The Wife thought it was dead having fallen from the sky, and was about to pick it up to dispose of it when it stirred. Just like that Michigan woman arisen when she was just about to be enbalmed at the mortuary.

After a few hours it began to stir, but was still too dazed and, in the two days since, it hadn't recovered sufficiently, it couldn't unfurl its right wing for one. We placed water and some feed nearby to give some relief. Slowly it moved from the front yard to the side and now the fence.

There was a scare the next day when two black cats were lurking nearby, but, somehow, either our presence or the mother dove's fierceness must have deterred the feline predators. I guess we could have taken it in to protect it but we're no vets and the mother was doing nature's job.

We had wondered how it had been able to move at all and now we have evidence: call it the carry trade. It looks as if the mother dove was now trying to carry its brood to safety if not higher ground, there was a nest nearby.

It took a few more days to mend, but I caught a glimpse of the younger dove flying with the mother - the wounded wing gave the bird a slightly lopsided arc to its flight path.

Doves

It was deep in my time of grief,
As the tears finally crystalized on my cheeks,
That I started to move on from crying
To recalling the stolen moments
The conversations never to be renewed

Our trade in misheard lyrics
I recalled that vision of the flight of doves
A revival, this movement towards an antidote,
And the sound of my brother's laughter

Soundtrack for this note

• When Doves Cry by Prince
• Revival by Martine Girault

See also The Laws of Grief

File under: memory, grief, life, personal, mourning, culture, observation, family, toli, poetry

Writing log: March 6, 2021

The Laws of Grief

The First Law of Grief, conservation, is, at first glance, confounding
That while cathartic, the public expression of grief favors forgetting
This is the quantity theory of grief that the ancients have observed
Namely, that it is in the nature of grief that it is preserved

A fundamental property of the substance is internal displacement
An external observer disturbs the soul, preventing reliable measurement
The observer effect is ineffable, never judge the outward appearance
Nay, the solitude of private grief destroys society's moral balance

That pain, unacknowledged, is a burden cannot be denied
Social beasts, the inside might not be as strong as the outside
Sometimes extreme measures are called for,
   even extraordinary rendition
It is only in retrospect that the workings of grief achieve recognition

The Second Law of Grief, irreversibility, is much disputed
For the texture of grief is intangible and cannot be computed
Most social sciences assume agency,
   hence the notion is frequently challenged
Practitioners believe in the efficacy of solace,
   thinking that it can be managed

It's an article of faith in all religions that the cure is consolation
Memorials and laughter are often proffered as emotional vaccination
The counselor's handy prescription for the spirit's rhythm of loss
Assuages the survivor's misgivings, yet we all one day will pay the cost

Some advanced the notion of stages,
Finite, and with an eventual equilibrium
These stages were posited as stepping stones,
Or rest stops, on the pathway to resolution

There were many doctrinal disputes about the magic number
Conclaves and conferences were held, more than I can remember
Was it the five heartbeats or, rather, the seven steps to heaven?
Out of the tower of Babel, came a dozen steps of mourning

Expedience and practicality reared its head contra the theorists
There's no pride of place to be the chief mourner in the funeral notice
Regret is everything, only belatedly can you enjoin in the communal numbness
Weary sons and daughters left wounded at the loved one's erasure, and the absence

Unlike thermodynamics, the Third Law of Grief concerns sorrow
The essential conceit is that no one is promised tomorrow
It is an inverse, this constant, and, rather than absolute zero,
The arc of grief, experiments confirm, instead approaches a plateau

The formal statement posits an upper bound, renewed anew
The paradox is that this physical limit is unapproachable
Whatever the perspective,
   whether raised heights or depths unfathomable,
You may think that you are done, but grief is never done with you

Applied grief, in practice, presents a serious dilemma
The theory holds that there are ways to move on and recover
Military training courses may try to inure their recruits from future trauma
But stress has a thousand fathers,
   while grief bears the affliction of a single mother

Unlike shame, for which some cultures have herd immunity,
There is no cure as yet, there is no remission for grief
Highly contagious, it's a social disease that simply cannot be prevented,
The only treatment is time, a balm with only minor palliative relief

The late discovery of the calculus of grief was a sorry chapter
Contra the skeptic's credo, its proponents got caught up in the rapture
The assumption of the golden rule
   has been that for every act of emotional kindness
Society will repay the bearer in full,
   and with no small amount of additional interest

Ivory tower professors, however, got into the mix,
   and designed a commodity market
But the flaw in the trading strategy's conception
   should have been readily apparent
Recall the First Law, markets can remain irrational
   longer than you can stay solvent

The Apocrypha suggest a Fourth Law of Grief which I'll briefly explore
Malcontents required an additional dimension,
   and preferred the Rule of Four

If you probe deeply, these quantum theories, simply stated, are plainly mislabeled
The putative reason is that grief's insubstantiality
   is the source of much frustration
Like its cousin, nostalgia, grief can be a fatal affliction
When in the throes of it, patients are frequently disabled

The impairment presents as a nervous condition,
   as they say, observers are worried
Yet the demands of capital mean that the working reality is barely acknowledged
In most companies, the nature of the loss
   is judged by the closeness of connection
Always check the fine print of the bereavement policy lest you suffer a resource action

All houses are grief houses, it all depends on one's time frame
The long view of humanity, let alone biology, enforces this hard rule
The tale of the lost stories, we're all marks in a shell game
The hard knocks will come surely,
   some learned the lesson early in school

In the world of the bereaved, the ritual is king
The comforting routines that are shared with kith and kin
A facade of normalcy is said to protect a house of pain
Guilt leads the way, but grief always leaves a residue of shame

Social interplay imposes complexity, we were left to understand
Previous certainties dissolved, like everything, they were written in sand
Our freedom is ephemeral, and this is the chief reason:
In the land of the living, we are never far from grief season

The natural impulse is to seek out unease when stricken
To find comfort in the unseemly, and embrace discomfiting
But the pangs afflict further, and run up against respectability
When, in your pain, you’re accused of disturbing tranquility

The burden of the done thing enforces the miserable
Teaching a lifelong caution against the public spectacle
The laws of grief, in their fullness, verge on the obscene
The fear of flailing even when you want to scream

In memoriam: Atu Mould (1972-2020)

Grief, a playlist

A soundtrack for this lament. (spotify version)

• King Of Sorrow by Sade
• Numb by Portishead
• How My Heart Sings by Bill Evans Trio
• Resolution by John Coltrane
• Weary by Amel Larrieux

See previously:

• Another Zoom Funeral
• Ode to Betty Brown
• Dela
• A Splinter of Ice
• The Searcher and other Dirges

This treatise and internal displacement is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: poetry, grief, culture, observation, perception, humour, social, human factors, memory, communities, life, mourning, Observers are worried, Social Living, Things Fall Apart, covidious, toli

Writing log: February 22, 2021

Another Zoom Funeral

Another zoom funeral
Grief unbounded
In unfamiliar settings
Burdened further by social distancing
Families in the diaspora
Dealt with all-too-familiar loss
Exiled souls and flowing tears
A beautiful soul now dearly lost
Flesh buried mid-Atlantic
We all one day will pay a similar cost

The spirit rests in cyberspace
Our rituals provide solace
In darkness we seek relief
Dirty pretty things arisen
After shifts working in care homes
Night nurses all, both young and old
We were in need of a merciful release
Ananse gathered all these burdened folk
To deliver us from unrelenting grief

And so we shared stories
Of laughter and peace
Of our brethren and sistren of yore
Storytelling, some call it folklore
Those precious memories of yesterday
The sour was overwhelmed by the sweet
Our culture and deft social interplay
Even amidst all this modernity
Meant we had riches untold
Tradition is not poverty
It remains our comfort suite

The faces linger, rectangular expressions of empathy
A worldwide gathering of chatroom sympathy
Mics muted and unmuted, a choral symphony
The background noise a nuisant reality
The funeral director, used to American brevity,
Could hardly handle Nigerian internet connectivity
We chuckled, us Ghanaians, with knowing Third World solidarity
We're dragging ourselves slowly into the First World polity

The sounds of uncontrolled sobs
An ingredient oft missing
In Western settings
Duly had to be injected
African customs persisting.
The cryer's mournful sounds
Provide a deserved sanctuary
Our final respects paid
Amidst the required mask wearing
All protocols observed
As we left the virtual mortuary
Our duty of care intact
We celebrated our mother's legacy
Even as we later clicked
To close the browser tab

For Auntie Ama

This dirge is a slight revision
Of the original spontaneous conception.
I can't bear the thought of editorial decision
Hence both are offered for your reading comprehension.

I simply felt I needed to add some more sweet to my concoction of grief soup.

See also: Funeral Minded, my first encounter with the new normalcy of virtual covidious grieving.

A day later...

It strikes me that the two recent covidious funerals I've attended had a missing ingredient beyond touch and presence, in the dearly departed's absence. Contra Western sterility, the African antidote is music and dance. Hence I give you

Celebration of Life, a playlist

The pity is that these would now be coronavirus superspreading events (a timeline).

Start with an Abutia clan funeral ceremony. It was a painful moment for all of us, we had lost Da but you can see the exact second when my Aunt's grief was sublimated and she lost herself in the dance, in fond remembrance of her mother.

I woke up to music this morning and I can safely say that the most exhilarating 9 minutes of recent memory was when The 7 year old and I took out our white handkerchief and comfort blanket respectively, and got down to our Bobobor song and dance circle. We were alone upstairs in the house, 6,000 miles away in time and space, sheltering in place in a pandemic across the Atlantic ocean, yet we were on the road to freedom. Music of the Gods

What paradise have we lost?

See also: African Ceremonies

File under: poetry, funerals, grief, mourning, culture, observation, perception, Ghana, Nigeria, immigration, USA, Africa, tradition, modernity, pandemic, storytelling, family, toli