An Asante funeral and a beautiful family

This past weekend I attended the funeral of my friend Kwaku's grandmother in a little village outside of Kumasi. Now, a few weeks ago when he invited me, saying that it would be an interesting experience for me, I was of course shocked and a little uncomfortable. I was horrified at the thought of being a tourist at someone's funeral. However... I soon found out that funerals in Ghana are more like weddings here - with dancing, drinking, and members of huge extended family's showing up that you only slightly recognize. So I spent this last Saturday and Sunday as the only obruni in an entire village, being herded and coddled by 20 some "aunties" - the term for all older female relatives. Very few members of the 200 - 300 people that I greeted, often numerous times, spoke English. Thus I was reduced to repeating the few simple Twi phrases I know over and over: "Medase paaaa" - thank you very much; "Ete sen? Bokooo" - How are you? Coooolll" and numerous others that made children, aunties and uncles alike laugh at me and wring my hand until it felt like it would fall off. On Saturday the wake, procession, the ceremony held in a Catholic church, and the burial was held. This was followed by a day of sitting, greeting, dancing, discreetly drinking in a building around the corner, people watching, and making donations to the family of the deceased which were then announced via microphone by one particular extroverted, eccentric and slightly tipsy auntie. When various groups of people, usually one or another branch of the extended family would walk in, they would proceed in a row from righ to left shaking hands with everyone sitting in the front row of chairs. At one point, Kwaku leaned over and whispered, "this is why you must wash your hands when you get home." On Saturday, all were dressed in black or red funeral cloth embossed with varying Asante symbols ("Adinkra") worn long (except for me who didn't get the message and had a shorter dress made, which the eccentric auntie informed me was too short). On Sunday, the attire was black and white print cloth, indicating a more celebratory mood to recognize that the deceased was 90 years old and had lived a long and prosperous life. For me the weekend was a crash-course in Ghanaian extended family, though even Kwaku was railed by numerous unidentified relatives for not remembering their names from when he was 4-years-old. I was almost glad to be a foreigner and thus expected to be clueless... I was treated like a queen all weekend, with Kwaku's sister and female cousins (also called "sisters") attending to my every need, whether I was aware of the particular need or not. At first it was overwhelming and my thank-yous were excessive but as the weekend wore on, I started becoming accustomed to the star treatment. Whether this is a good thing or not I haven't decided yet. The entire event, as well as the stay with Kwaku's family in Kumasi inside a traditional Ghanaian house (I will talk about this more later) was likely the most educational and wonderful experience of Ghanaian life I have had so far... To whatever extent it is true, I now feel that I can understand a little more about Ghanaians that I meet - actually having physically experienced the scope of an extended family, a household and gender roles.... I am so grateful to Kwaku, his sister Kyewa/Monica, his childhood friends, his wonderful parents, aunties (particularly crazy auntie Regina whom began each day with a guiness), and the entirety of his extended family even if he cannot remember who they all are. I'm just throwing this thank you out to the world, as I have likely drowned Kwaku and co. with them already.