GoKawiilConsider, for a moment, a funeral in Ghana.
Suppose you’re an elderly Ghanaian—let’s say you’re Kofi, age 74, an Akan. One day, you do as all humans must and die. Perhaps you die at your modest bungalow in a northern suburb of Accra, Ghana’s capital. What happens next?
A few things. First, your immediate family will discover that you’re dead; and, in order to deal with the logistics of your death, they call the head of your extended family: the abusuapanyin. This is not your closest surviving relative. The Akan are matrilineal, and the maternal line “owns” the body, so the abusuapanyin is the most senior male on your mother’s side. And he’s the one who will take charge of the arrangements from this point forward. In consultation with him, your body is taken to the nearest hospital mortuary, where it’s embalmed and placed in a refrigerated unit.
Your body is going to remain in that refrigerated unit for a long time. Typically it will be weeks or months; sometimes bodies can stay refrigerated for an entire year. Why so long? Because the longer that the body stays in the mortuary, the more time the family has to raise funds for a funeral truly befitting your status. And, since the hospital charges escalating fees for each additional week that your body is stored there, keeping your body refrigerated for a long time is itself a mark of prestige.
Eventually, your family decides that they’ve raised the funds they’re going to raise. So they pick a Saturday—the funerals of Christian Ghanaians are always held on Saturdays—and plan a lavish event that will, in fact, stretch across three days. They hire a graphic designer to produce large colorful banners bearing your name, your photograph, your dates of birth and death, and the time and place of your funeral: these are hung on walls and fences at intersections around the city. They rent a venue, hire a large staff—caterers, a DJ or live band, a photographer, maybe also a videographer—and choose a funeral cloth for the family to wear. And if your family can afford it, or wants the community to believe that they can, they commission a craftsman to carve you a “fantasy coffin” shaped like something you enjoyed or admired in life: perhaps a cocoa pod, a school building, a crab, a paintbrush, or a giant blue teapot.
And, finally, after all this, the big day comes. Your body is retrieved from the mortuary; hundreds of people show up, many of whom never knew you in life; and a great deal of money is spent feeding them, entertaining them, and sending you off in the style that an Akan elder deserves.
This all sounds, you’ll notice, very expensive. And it is.
A modest, mid-level funeral in Ghana costs about $5,000 U.S. dollars; a “befitting” one can easily cost $15,000 or $20,000. And all this in a country with a median income of about $1,500 per year. Ghana is known for its particularly ornate funeral culture; but it’s not the only place in sub-Saharan Africa with a culture of exorbitantly expensive funerals. The average household in KwaZulu-Natal in eastern South Africa, for example, spends the equivalent of an adult’s annual income on a single funeral. We see the same tendency for ultra-expensive funerals in a striking number of places: the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Kenya, Nigeria, Benin, Uganda, Cameroon, Mozambique, the Ivory Coast. It’s often observed, in fact, that families will spend more money on burying the dead than on keeping the sick alive: indeed, in the Kagera region of northern Tanzania, families spend 50 percent more money on funerals than on medical care.
So how do people pay for these remarkably expensive events?
Sometimes they’ll have insurance of some kind: funeral insurance, where the payout is earmarked for the funeral costs, is one of the most popular financial products in sub-Saharan Africa—often, in fact, more popular than health insurance. And much of the time, family members will pay for funerals with loans from others. About a quarter of households in KwaZulu-Natal, for example, pay for funerals by going into debt.
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