Death, Morgues and Everything In-between, By Bamidele Johnson

The first lying-in-state I attended was that of my friend’s father in 1992. By design, I had only half a peep at the corpse. By the time I got close enough to see it, darkness had already begun to do me a favour. I was spared the displeasure of seeing whatever details I did not want to see.

I am a necrophobe. Not the mildly uncomfortable sort. I am a stonewall, nailed-on, granite-fireplace, marble-kitchen-counter necrophobe. Death, in its physical form, unsettles me in a way I have never quite been able to explain.

I avoid looking at coffins. Studiously. I hate morgues. I always wonder why people want to gawk at cadavers.

The first time I visited the morgue where my mom’s corpse had been deposited, my heart thumped like it was going to force itself out of my chest. It did not help that I still had vivid memories of my last visit to the morgue at the General Hospital, Ikeja, almost 30 years earlier, when Oluwaseyi Oduyela and I went to do a story on the lives of morgue workers.

That place was poorly kept. It stank of death every hour, minute and second. The morgue where my mom was kept was different. It was privately-run. There was no smell. Not even the faintest. Somehow, that made the whole thing more unsettling. I almost wished there had been a smell, something ordinary and recognisable to blame my discomfort on.

The morgue is located in a fully residential area, which made me wonder whether I would not go nuts if I actually lived around there. Imagine waking up every morning knowing that just beyond your window, people had stash of corpses. I could not do it. Corpses, even the thought of them, send me into fits.  I doubt my reaction to cremains will be very different.

For the first time, I will be admitting something I have never said publicly. I never saw my mom’s corpse.

On the day of her funeral, I went to the morgue with my sister. I had to motivate myself very hard on the way there. I knew the corpse would have to be washed and handed over to us, and I was determined not to make an ass of myself when that happened.

My breathing must have been heavier than that of an about-to-be-beheaded hostage. I think I masked it well, though, with plenty of unnecessary chatter, the sort people deploy when trying desperately to appear normal while their insides are conducting an emergency evacuation.

Then came my salvation.

When we arrived, we were told that only my sister could go inside because she was a woman. I was awash in relief. I did not argue with the policy, tradition, procedure or biology. I was grateful for all of it.

By the time they were done, my mom’s corpse had been put into the coffin and the coffin into the hearse that would take her to the funeral service. I had escaped.

At the service, there was no opening of the coffin. There was no reason to. None of us showed any appetite for it. The arrangement was to go straight to the cemetery, after which we would go to the reception. The funeral programme did not require me to confront the thing I had spent the day avoiding.

I was spared the sight of the corpse.

I suspect I am not the only necrophobe alive. Over the years, I have seen people on social media vehemently complain about the posting of corpses, particularly gory ones. Clearly, there are others whose stomachs turn at the sight of the dead, even if their reasons are different from mine.

I have seen people complain about photographs of corpses at Islamic funerals posted on social media. Those ones, in particular, scare me shitless. The dead are often simply wrapped in white cloth, and you can see the outline of the body underneath. There is something about that unmistakable human shape beneath the cloth that creeps me out completely.

Even coffins addle my head.

I have often wondered why people post photographs of coffins or corpses in the first place. Is it part of grieving? I concede that people can grieve however they want. There is no official manual for sorrow. But I struggle to understand how displaying the dead, particularly in photographs, communicates grief.

Perhaps it does for some people. Perhaps it is their way of accepting the reality of death, preserving a final image, announcing the loss or allowing others to participate in their mourning. I can concede all of that intellectually. Emotionally, however, I remain unconvinced.

Grief, to me, is supposed to be sober and private, even when it is publicly expressed. A corpse is no silverware like the Champions League trophy, and death does not become more meaningful because its physical evidence is circulated on social media.

Sometimes, when I see such photographs, I wonder whether the people posting them are grieving at all or whether they are simply seeking attention. That may be unfair. It may even be completely wrong. Or perhaps the problem is not with them. Perhaps it is with me and my head is just messed up.

After all is said and done, I am a stonewall, nailed-on, granite-fireplace, marble-kitchen-counter necrophobe. For me, death is easier to contemplate as an idea than as a body. Once the person becomes a corpse, my mind wants out.