Ghanaians believe death is something worth celebrating. Funerals dominate the calendar of weekend social events. For many older people, a Saturday funeral is the place to see and be seen. Well dressed guests flow in off the street in monochrome bright red (worn by family to show deep loss), black (worn by more distant mourners), or white (when the deceased is over 70 so their passing is not a surprise). They are multi-day affairs with food, dancing, and an open door policy. This policy is so generous that everyone I met insisted I go to a funeral. I asked whose funeral I would possibly go to, “anyone’s” was their answer. It turns out that a foreigner wandering in is socially acceptable, as long as they dress for the occasion. 

I later learned that strangers are critical infrastructure at funerals. In fact, some are paid to be there as professional mourners. Families pay these actors to show off how dearly loved the deceased was. Their fees vary based on the level of their devastation. A few bucks gets you a downtrodden look and half-hearted sniffles. Loosening the purse strings will buy you convincing wails and racking sobs. Shelling out a small fortune gets you an attendee so destroyed by loss that they jump into the grave with the casket, screaming that they would rather be buried alongside them than live another day without them. I can’t imagine how confusing this package would be to any family members who were not included in the hiring decision. In the middle of a beautiful sermon, someone they have never seen in their life is begging to be buried alive with Grandpa.

Word spreads about funerals in two main ways: word of mouth and funeral posters. Funeral posters cover telephone poles and billboards across the country. They all feature a picture of the deceased in their Sunday best, their age, the agenda for the funeral, and a catchy title. The title varies based on age. An early death in one’s 20’s or 30’s is marked as “Painful Exit”, a middle aged passing might declare “Call to Glory”, and an elderly person kicking the bucket is denoted as “Celebration of Life”. For the older crowd the picture is often airbrushed to look much much younger, like Bradley Cooper post face lift. The ages are not always trustworthy either. One poster announced the passing of a 120 year old woman. Either she was flying under the radar as the oldest person alive, or the record keeping in 1900’s Ghana was suspect.

For the month I was there, much of the talk centered around funeral stories. Some of them were so absurd that I would never believe them if I was not being told by a direct witness. One coworker went to a funeral where the deceased’s cold body was seated upright at the dinner table. Mourners ate their food while their late loved one was stiff as a board in the seat next to them, growing bluer and bluer by the minute. At another funeral, the family got a little too carried away with the planning process. They spent so much time arguing and ideating that two years passed between the death and the celebration. Despite the embalming, that time took a toll on the body. During the viewing, mourners were shocked to see a shriveled version of the person they once knew. Admittedly, it had been a while since anyone had seen them, but the difference was obvious. I’m sure that is how the deceased wanted to be remembered. 

The most impressive part of funeral culture is the fantasy coffins. These are coffins built in a shape that celebrate one’s life’s work. At the coffin workshop we visited, they had a giant syringe coffin for a doctor, a stack of money for a banker, and a chicken for a mother who was adored by her children (a play on mother hen). Works in progress included a tuna for a fisherman and a cleat for a soccer player. Once the shell is made, a hole is cut into the top for the body to be fed inside. After the ceremony the beautiful creation is buried, never to be seen again. 

The more I heard about Ghanaian funerals the more I wanted to go to one. The funeral talk crescendoed as my departure date neared. Unfortunately, due to a myriad of excuses that can be summed up as me not putting in any effort to go to one, funeral crashing was not in the stars for my trip. If I ever return to Ghana, an all black outfit will be in my suitcase. I’d be more than happy to provide a donation to secure a mourner-for-hire.