Fashions worn at the funeral service for Gerald 'Bogle' Levy at the Kencot Seventh-day Adventist Church on Sunday, February 6, 2005. - File

When I die, I must be mourned. Fill the rivers and the streams with your tears, roll on the ground and wallow in your grief. Take a deep breath and let it all out, the shock, the excruciating pain.

Three days of mourning I want. I am not greedy. And in all of it, my relatives will not be pressured to feed the entire community. Suddenly, they are rich! Might I instruct you to turn away anyone who walks into the house with his dirty shoes, and the first thing he says is: "Where is the liquor?"

meaningless music

Loud, meaningless music is not allowed, nor is the playing of dominoes. Focus on my passing. Loud music will drown out the wonderful memories you have of me, and the 'slapping down' by domino players is just that. A sharp rebuke of the bereavement in the air.

No outrageous outfits should be paraded at my funeral. It's a mournful occasion, not a display of the pretentious sensibilities you see on 'red carpets'. I am dead, why a fashion show? It is not like I can see who is wearing what. Not that I really care, anyway. And the colour for mourning? Red!

A lengthy service I want not. I will not put my loved ones through the agony of viewing my naturally polished mahogany casket for three hours and more. Moreover, there won't be any refreshments for parched tongues and growling stomachs that seem to be so common at funerals these days. The shorter the service, the better for those who turn up at funerals believing they are feasts.

I really don't want any eulogy read. What's a eulogy over a stiff corpse? What good are accolades and praises over flesh that is soon to be melted away in decadence? Can they resurrect me from my final slumber? Just sing me a song of love. Colour the cadence of your voice with sorrow, for in the morrow I shall be gone forever. And certainly, no impromptu readings of platitudes from associates who only want a piece of the limelight will be tolerated.

But you must move the remembrance. Remember me exactly as I was - cantankerous me, but full of joie de vivre. Don't embellish the stories to make me look good. A dead man just cannot. Recall my good days and bad. Tell of the time when I accidentally killed a cat. Also, the day when I was so hungry, I took money from the offering tray in church and bought an orange, the sweetest orange I had ever tasted.

Talk about the time when I fought Dean Barnes at school until the soles of his shoes came off. You must not forget my baptismal night, when I was baptised after Miss Blake, a woman who was not so chaste. How I got a fine beating after my 'holy' dip for disobeying my parents. And, very important, it wasn't I, as it is alleged in certain quarters, who beat the deacon's son with an umbrella one Sabbath day. It was my brother.

You must be overcome with unspeakable grief as I am lowered into my grave. It's the last time you'll get a glimpse of me. With gusto, get it out. That gut-wrenching wail that will echo from the hills, and be carried on the wings of the wind.

Over my grave plant a weeping willow tree, so that it can bend its back and cover me, and keep me company in eternity. And on my tombstone shall be etched: 'Oh what a bittersweet life he led'.

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