EMOTIONAL PREVARICATION: MY ENCOUNTER WITH A PROFESSIONAL MOURNER BY_ PROFESSOR SIMEON DOSUNMU

Wonders, they often say, will never end. What some people are accustomed to are totally strange to others. Human beings are indeed interesting creatures. Sometimes, what appears strange to one person is another person's normal way of life.

We left home very early that Thursday morning in order not to get stuck in traffic. We were going to the burial ground at Victoria Garden City to witness the interment and commiserate with a friend who had lost a dear one.

The sky was halcyon. The ground was soft and clean, still carrying the freshness of the night. The little shrubs and flowers appeared to be rising gently from the chilly morning. People stood in groups; some were pensive, some sober, while others simply waited quietly for the ceremony to begin.

I entered the small chapel and ensconced myself in a corner. I buried myself in a book to occupy the waiting time.

As I read, I noticed a woman in black attire seated not far from me. She was restless. She moved about with a certain recklessness that attracted my attention. I glanced at her and continued reading.

Not long afterwards, the siren of the ambulance pierced the atmosphere and people were suddenly jolted to their feet.

The woman stood up too.Then the drama began.

She started jiggling as if something had entered her. She stomped her feet several times, retied her wrapper and jerked her body like someone who had just recovered from a stupor.

Instinctively, I shifted a little away from her.

But curiosity kept me there.

I wanted to see what she was about to unfold.

To me, she was preparing to become dotty.

There is a Yoruba saying: “Were dun wo l’ójà, ṣùgbọ́n kò ṣe bí l’ómo.” Madness may be entertaining to watch in the marketplace, but it is not the same when the mad person is one's own child.

I was about to witness something that made the saying particularly relevant.

When the corpse was brought out of the glittering casket, the woman went completely berserk.

She threw away her headgear, tore the top of her dress, shrieked, yelled and rolled on the ground. She was inconsolable—or so it appeared. Women quickly gathered around her and tried to restrain her. She resisted.

At a point, she escaped their grip, laid on her back and continued her performance with such intensity that her clothing became dangerously displaced.

Sensible men withdrew immediately—albeit temporarily.

There are some things a man can watch in the name of sympathy, but there are others that require strategic withdrawal.

Her hair became unkempt, her clothes were in disarray, and what is called underwear was dangerously turning into what should not be displayed at a burial ceremony.

Concerned individuals quickly covered her. She uncovered herself. They covered her again. She resisted again. The situation became more dramatic when the corpse was about to be lowered into the grave.

The woman suddenly became stronger than a thousand demons.

She kicked.

She screamed.

She resisted the pallbearers.

She bit some.

She held on to the hands of others.

She even grabbed the rope and threw it away.

She insisted that she must be buried alongside the corpse and the casket.

At this point, I began to wonder whether grief could actually confer supernatural strength.

She resisted every plea and matched every attempt to restrain her with renewed vigour. Eventually, however, through caution, cajoling and collective effort, the mourners prevailed.

The corpse was lowered.

The grave was filled.

The burial was over.

In less than five minutes, we trekked from the burial ground back to the chapel.

But I was no longer the same person who had walked to the graveside.

I was thinking about the brevity of life.

I was thinking about death.

I was thinking about how a human being could be alive today and be reduced to a memory tomorrow.

I could not walk fast.

I carried my gait with all fragility.

The drama I had just witnessed had suddenly become a meditation on mortality.

By the time I got back to the chapel, I was stunned, bewildered and bemused.

Then I saw something that almost made me question my understanding of grief.

It was the same woman.

Yes, the same woman.

The woman who, less than five minutes earlier, had fought heaven and earth because somebody was being buried.

She was sitting down quietly.

Eating.

Not just eating.

She was eating a mountainous bowl of rice, generously decorated with assorted pieces of meat.

Two empty bottles of soft drinks were beside her.

I stood there.

I looked at her.

I looked at the rice.

I looked at the empty bottles.

Then I looked at her again.

I was confused.

How could someone who had just rolled on the ground, screamed, bitten pallbearers, resisted the lowering of a corpse and insisted on being buried with the deceased suddenly recover sufficiently to attack a mountain of rice?

There was no way I could put up such a show and still have the stamina to eat within a few minutes afterwards.

I was still trying to make sense of the entire episode when someone casually told me:

“She is a professional mourner.”

Ah!

Suddenly, everything became clear.

The tears were professional.

The screams were professional.

The rolling was professional.

The biting was professional.

The resistance was professional.

Even the attempt to be buried with the deceased was professional.

And apparently, the appetite was also professional.

I looked at her again.

She was eating peacefully.

I began to laugh within myself.

While I was contemplating the brevity of life, she was contemplating the next spoonful of rice.

While I was reflecting on mortality, she was dealing with assorted meat.

While I was carrying my gait with all fragility, she had recovered with remarkable speed.

That day, I discovered that even grief has its professionals.

Some people mourn because they have lost someone.

Some mourn because they loved someone.

Some mourn because tradition demands it.

And some, apparently, mourn because they are paid to mourn.

It was an unusual encounter, but it taught me something about human behaviour: what we see is not always what it is.

Emotion can be genuine.

Emotion can be expressed.

Emotion can also be performed.

And sometimes, the person who appears to be suffering the most may simply be the person who has mastered the art of making suffering look real.

As for me, I left that burial with two things on my mind: the brevity of life and the extraordinary versatility of human beings.

And, of course, one question that I have not been able to answer till today:

How does one move so quickly from fighting to be buried with the dead to fighting a mountainous bowl of rice?

Wonders, indeed, will never end.

© Professor Simeon Dosunmu 

@Social Seer, 2026.