I can't tell you how many times I tried to be brave and not cry at your vivid descriptions of
church and cemetary scenery and family reactions .
But helas! I had to break down and let go of the tears...
You saw La Vonda smiling.
You've taken us on a voyage that we couldn't make
It was soelmn, heart-wrenching, sad and beautiful !!!
You represented us very well.
May God bless and comfort you!!!
Bridget
From: toyinfalola@austin.utexas.edu
To: USAAfricaDialogue@googlegroups.com
Subject: USA Africa Dialogue Series - La Vonda: Final Resting Report by Dr Michael Afolayan
Date: Wed, 29 Jan 2014 22:38:15 +0000
Oh, La Vonda!
by
Michael O. Afolayan
January 28, 2014
“When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. . . .” Shakespeare, Julius Caesar.
Prologue
I had not cried for a long time in my life; but today, I did. Where else did that happen but at La Vonda’s funeral! I am short of words, but three of the thirty-something stanzas of the 18th century work of Thomas Gray, which got my attention the very first day I was introduced to this unique style of poetry, came back to me like the sound of a mighty wind, thanks to La Vonda.
Today, I was the first to arrive at the century old Baptist Church where the funeral service took place – almost an hour earlier in my characteristic way (since I would rather come way too early than be a little late), after all, I took today off for this purpose. The church traffic warden saw me standing at the front entrance of the Church and came to open the door for me. I sat alone in the huge auditorium, surrounded by a deep presence of silence. Actually, the silence was so palpable that, as the Yoruba would say, “if you dropped a needle in the vast field, you would hear the sound.” It gave me a brief space to enjoy a moment of sober reflection. Half an hour later, the funeral party arrived. As a gentleman carefully pushed in the casket that carried our sister’s body, the solemn clatter and the rhythm of the wheels sounded like the taps of an ancient horse-drawn wagon. Suddenly, the first stanza of Gray’s “Elegy Written in the Country Churchyard” flowed back into my memory:
The curfew tolls the knell of a parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
The Pre-Service
By now, half a dozen or so men in black suits and white gloves were inside with me. They were the attending staff from the funeral home. The casket was beautiful – light blue and shinning. I rose to my feet and went straight to the men; shook hands with them and asked if it was the body of Professor Staples that they just brought in. They confirmed. My spirit melted. I was too much a skeptic, a “Doubting Thomas” who had to doubt everything until it reaches the indubitable. I was hoping they would say no and make me to wake up from my nightmare. I was wrong; they were right; and La Vonda was right. I then picked up my cell phone and snatched a couple of pictures of the coffin. Then, the leader raised the casket on a set of portable hangers and proceeded to open it for the viewing. My heart started to beat faster than usual but I summoned courage to open my eyes. The upper lid was uncovered. A brown paper towel covered the face of the body. The mortician removed it and lo and behold it was La Vonda that I knew, the one that gave me and my wife a big hug a few days earlier; but quite unlike her, she was not talking. She was still, cold but eternally beautiful – you would think La Vonda was taking a nap. She looked so solemn, peaceful, and rested. I thought I was literally seeing her heart beating, but it was my mere infatuation for a “living La Vanda” that beclouded my objective reality. I touched her hands, they were cold and frozen, so well preserved, you were almost tempted to start talking to her. As she lay on the beautiful shroud with her eyes closed and head unmoved, the face of La Vonda was set aglow. My mind caught the lines of one of the verses of Gray’s “Elegy” that says:
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark’d him for her own.
By now, the Church auditorium was almost packed. The family had arrived and members were many. Brian, the husband, came to me and we had a big, long hug. The same went for the children, all of whom were understandably devastated, subbing incessantly. I had to keep my emotion as much as possible, for reason yet unknown. My father had warned me from childhood that as a man, I could not cry in the public, all I could do was bleed inside of me and console those around.
Suddenly, the pipe organ released a solemn sound of music and the congregation rose to its feet. The organist was Ms. Sharon (believe it or not, La Vonda’s biological mother!!!). She played her heart out. I believe they were hymns she sang with La Vonda in her childhood days. The wonderful mom never ceased to baffle my imagination. She had it all together, unruffled, unperturbed! I told myself, now I know where La Vonda’s superhuman DNA came from. Mama Sharon continued to play the organ as the congregation sang and moaned. Then, the lead minister swiftly raised his voice and chanted the words of John 11: 25 (I am the resurrection and the life . . .). It was surreal!
I looked at the body of La Vonda from my vantage point; and again, that face was truly set aglow, lively and radiant. The anguish of pain, the endless pinch of itching and the discomforting aching were all gone, completely disappeared. If you had the courage to look at her face like I did, you would notice it was as if La Vonda was smiling – seriously speaking, enjoying the eagerness of where she was headed, her face set heavenwards, in the direction of a home she had so much longed for. Her celestial-like calmness was unprecedented and I lack the words to express it. But then, the last verse of Gray’s poem rang in my head . .
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
I started preaching to myself. For me, those three stanzas presented a vivid but solemn invocation of the whisper of nature inherent in the imminent final call every mortal must receive and answer to. Believe me, today, those words came to life, oozing back at me like the waves of a mighty ocean in the hands of an angry storm! I thought to myself, indeed, as the character Macbeth reminded us, “Life is but a walking shadow; a poor player that struts and frets its hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” I can’t imagine this, but our sister is gone, far gone – way beyond the blue.
Still borrowing the wisdom of Shakespeare, “Parting is such sweet sorrow” but, I must confess, the sorrow in my heart outweighs the “sweet” and it was so hard to celebrate the parting of this quintessential African Queen, not after looking at Sarah, the 15 year old daughter in the eyes, or after looking at her boys cry incessantly. In fact, one of the boys would sit down for a few minutes and walk back to the open casket, kneel down and weep over and over again. And Brian, the husband, could not curtail it any longer. He had spent much of the time consoling the children but soon he himself broke down, weeping bitterly and loudly. “I can’t let her go,” Brian whispered to me. I heard him. I imagined myself in Brian’s shoes, looking at the peaceful, beautiful and cold face of my wife in the casket. My heart wept. “She will always be a part of us,” I said to Brian, not because I was truly being philosophical but because I did not know how to console a man who has just lost the wife of his youth. I still fought tears. The coffin closed, and the viewing was over. The formal service began.
The Service
There were eulogies; there were words of appreciations; there were poems and songs, including the ones that La Vonda composed herself. I spoke as the representative of the African community that La Vonda served so well on the networks and told them how much we appreciated her intellectual finesse. I read Professor Falola’s letter, and read the note from my wife and I. One of her sisters read many of the write-ups in blogs, e-mails, Facebook, etc., especially those that friends in the African intellectual community had posted on her, to her, and for her. La Vonda had meticulously selected many of these before she passed on and asked that they be read aloud! The sister spoke of the magnanimity of our illustrious Chief Falola who singlehandedly brought African soil to be a part of the grave soil in which La Vonda eventually slept. I presented a card from our collective African cultural-cum-intellectual community and presented a bouquet of flowers.
The service was over. It was time for a final viewing. The casket was opened for the last time and everyone was asked to walk past the body for the last time as we readied for the cemetery. The children cried again. The husband cried – again. The mother - the organist, now must see her daughter for the last time. This courageous woman left the organ alone and went to view her daughter. She touched La Vonda, rocked her, stood still; rocked her again; knelt down and spoke to her for a long time, and then mama gracefully walked back to her seat. On getting to her seat, the coffin closed. She started to rock. I knew she remembered how she held La Vonda as a baby. She continued to rock and rock, and finally, the woman of courage broke down in tears and sobbed uncontrollably. Then, there was nothing left in me. I had to cry. I finally answered the call of nature and wept bitterly, only then did my headache subside and my mind cleared. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen.
The Heavens Smiles
I am not superstitious – far from it, but two things touched me today. The bouquet of flowers we presented was a “yellowish white” type. It marched the clothing in which La Vonda was dressed 100%! Secondly, today was a super cold day. The temperature was about zero degrees, possibly sub-zero in the morning. When it was time to go to the cemetery, the weather changed. The cloudy day turned into a brilliant, sunny day and our temperature rose to be in the twenties – that was like a heat wave, and standing in the cemetery was pleasant! Thank you, La Vonda!
Epilogue
For the sake of respect, and in the spirit of collegiality, I will refrain from rendering the heroic poem of the great Bayo Faleti titled, “Adebimpe Ojedokun” although it is by far the closest human voice that expresses my feeling as I watched this indomitable African princess laid to rest. It does not matter how much effort I make in translating it to any other language (and I have tried to do that in the past), nothing will deliver it than in the unalloyed Yoruba words and diction with which Alagba Faleti articulated it. However, looking at this sister silently resting, I told myself, never again would I take life for granted; never again would I take people for granted; never again would I take my friends for granted; never again would I make diminutive the peculiar voice which the Almighty had planted in me; never again would I take my skills for granted; never and never again . . .
La Vonda’s death is an “ouch” that bites so hard, it bleaches and bleeds! She was not among cowards that die many times before their deaths; she will forever remain, literally, figuratively, culturally, spiritually, among the valiant that “never taste of death but ones.” La Vonda was a strong discussant, sometimes an agent provocateur who refused to bow to loud shouts. She was a talent on loan from God! Hers was a tongue that refused to be docile, a hand that did not allow itself to be the devil’s tool. In the prime of her life, she bobbled with life and was productive in her intellect; La Vonda was endowed with a renaissance mind. At 47, one could say she came to us in a hurry and left us in a hurry, but not before she touched our hearts. What an irony of history and a tragedy of fate for us all! This is one void that can never be filled, a chasm that can never be bridged – this is, indeed, a sacrilegious blow!
The death that takes away one’s acquaintance is a parody to one’s mortality, as our elders would say. We are a bunch of the dead sorrowing for the dead. The lesson is this: Even babies die; even the aged die; even the intellectuals die; even good people die; even the young die; even the beautiful ones die; even the gentle-at-heart die. Even those at the opposite end die. Death operates within the bipolar of human existence. It’s a debt we must pay; it is a necessary end that will come when it will come. To the cowards, death is the melancholic anticlimax of life; to the valiant like our sister, death does not terminate life but transitions the soul and provides the much needed vehicle for the triumphant entry to true living and to freedom unabated.
I challenged La Vonda to please, humor the wishful thinking of our leader, Professor Falola, the one she so much adored, and give us a homecoming of herself in nine months’ time so that our universe may be blessed with an Iyabo on this side of the great divide so that our dry desert may surprise us with a bounteous oasis. I challenged La Vonda to please come back and walk this earth plane with us again and we will never take her for granted evermore.
A mini-house will be built by Brian in which all memorabilia of La Vonda will be housed, including some of the leftover soil from Africa.
I am exhausted and speechless. The beautiful one must be born again.
Michael O. Afolayan
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