ADA__THE DEAD BODY WASHER____#51

The first time I had washed a dead body I was 19 years old, holding one hand over my nose.

My name is Ada, and in my family I am the one who washes the dead.

It has not been a title anyone aspires to. In Nkpor, when someone dies in our kindred, women come to wash the body before it can be buried. My aunty Nneoma used to do it. She did it 20 years. One morning she woke up and said her chest is paining her, she cannot do it again. My other aunty, Mama Chi said she has arthritis. My mother said she faints when she sees dead people. So they looked at me, the small girl who just finished secondary school.

"It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it ooooooo Nwamm ," my grandmother said. She did not say it with pityy at alll.... She said it like a final judgement.

The first body was my great uncle, Pa Obinna. He died at 89. They called me by 5am. The compound was already noisy. Women crying, men drinking palm wine like it's a party. They brought me to the back room where they kept him. He was lying on a mat, stiff, his mouth slightly open. The smell hit me first, not strong, but odd, like cold meat...........omor

Aunty Nneoma gave me a bucket of warm water, a sponge and a bar of Delta soap. "Wash him well. Don't let his spirit go dirty," she said.

My hand was shakiing. I started from his face.. . I wiped his forehead...... His skin was so cold it burned my own hand..... I wanted to run, but I remembered grandmother's words. Someone has to do it........

I washed his arms, his legs, his chest. I was crying and washing at the same time, not because I was close to him, but the realization that nobody wants to touch a dead person, but everybody wants a clean burial, hypocrites.

After that day it became my job. Every burial in Umunna, they call Ada. Ada come and wash. Sometimes I get 2k, sometimes I get a wrapper, sometimes I get nothing but a thank you and a plate of rice.

Last December, it was Mrs. Okoro. She died during childbirth. She was 32. Her body was still warm when they called me. Her husband was outside punching the wall. Her mother was on the floor rolling............ And I was inside, with a bucket.

I washed her hair. She had long hair. I thought about how she probably made that hair for Christmas. I washed her stomach that was still swollen. That was when I broke down, I sat on the floor and I cried, not a small cry, that loud cry that comes from your stomach. Because it's unfair, she was 32, I am 24. What makes me the one washing and not the one being washed.

Her mother came in, she saw me crying and she hugged me. She said "thank you, my daughter. This is a tough job."

And for the first time, I did not feel disgusted, I felt... useful.

People think my job is dirty. My friends laugh when I tell them. "Ada, you dey wash dead body? God forbid!" they say. They do POS business, hair business, fine fine business. But when their own person dies, they will call me at midnight. "Ada please, we need you."

It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it........... And I have come to understand that tough jobs are not always about strength, it's about who is willing to be uncomfortable so that others can have peace. The dead cannot wash themselves. They need one living person who will not run away from cold skin and open mouths.

I still hold my nose sometimes, I still cry sometimes. But I wash them well. I wash them like I would want someone to wash me if I go, with care, with soap, with small prayer under my breath.

Last week my grandmother called me. She said, "Ada, I am proud of you omalicha nwammm(my beautiful daughter)." That was alll..... No money, no wrapper. Just proud. And somehow that was enough to make me want to continue doing this tough job tomorrow again...................

IMAGE IS AI GENERATED