In Nigeria, a concerning trend has emerged where families are abandoning their loved ones’ remains in morgues, largely due to the escalating costs and societal pressures to host extravagant funerals. This practice has resulted in overcrowded mortuaries, as many families delay proper burials in favor of planning lavish send-offs. In some cases, bodies have remained unburied for years, highlighting the severe consequences of this issue, as reported by Godfrey George.
For 18 months, Prince Chibundu could not lay his father to rest. The high chief had passed away quietly. As dawn broke on a warm morning in May 2019, his body succumbed to the cruel grip of a stroke.
A man who once strode the corridors of accounting firms, working as a certified accountant, he later turned his back on spreadsheets and audits to embrace the ancient throne of his ancestors.
But even as his spirit left this world, his family found themselves paralyzed, trapped by tradition, and torn by the insidious pursuit of a grand, “befitting” funeral.
What should have been a period of mourning and reflection swiftly became a battlefield of wills. Chibundu’s family—his mother, Chioma, and his father’s three other wives—found themselves on opposing sides of a cultural tug-of-war.
His mother, pragmatic in her grief, proposed a simple burial two months after the chief’s death, reasoning that they could honor him later with a lavish remembrance ceremony when finances and emotions were in a better place.
But the other wives, driven by the weight of ancestral expectations and the demands of kin, vehemently disagreed.
It was a real struggle,” Chibundu recalled, his voice heavy with the memory. “I was still in school at the University of Abuja, trying to focus on my studies, but the family battle consumed me.”
His phone rang incessantly. His mother would call, her voice low and strained, pleading with him to return to Imo State and help her make sense of the chaos.
But Chibundu’s elder sister, who was living abroad at the time, begged him to stay away. She feared for his safety, warning that tensions were running high and that an attempt to intervene might lead to violence.
The prince was caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—torn between duty to his family and the haunting possibility of danger. The fight, however, was not just about timing or family rivalries; it was about status and pride.
Chibundu’s father, though modest in life, had accumulated significant wealth and properties. Yet, in death, these assets became a secondary concern.
What truly mattered to the extended family was the spectacle of the burial. The man’s soul, they believed, would find no peace without a ceremony worthy of his status, a grand display of power and opulence that would satisfy the ancestors.
“They wanted a burial that people would talk about for years,” Chibundu explained, his voice growing bitter. “It wasn’t about honoring him—it was about showing off.”
Then came the request that shook him to his core. One day, shortly after finishing his third-year exams, Chibundu received a call from his uncle. His voice was calm, almost businesslike.
“I need you to get access to your father’s bank accounts,” his uncle had said, barely hesitating. “We’ll need at least N20m for the burial. You are his first son. You have the money; give us!”
Chibundu, stunned, stared at his phone. The figure was staggering, the request even more so. “N20m? For a burial?” he recalled asking, and his uncle’s voice was stern. It was N20m or nothing.
“I called my mum immediately,” Chibundu recounted, still sounding incredulous at the memory. “She told me to stay out of it. She said we needed that money to survive now that my dad was gone. How could they expect us to throw it all away on a single day?”
The family’s demands grew more outrageous with each passing week. The elders, in their fervor for a “befitting” burial, took matters into their own hands.
Without warning, they seized the chief’s body and transferred it to a government morgue in a neighboring state, out of reach of the immediate family.
For months, the corpse of the once-revered man languished in cold storage, held hostage by tradition and family pride.
Did you know a tribe that digs up corpses, dresses them for…
What should have been a period of mourning and reflection swiftly became a battlefield of wills. Chibundu’s family—his mother, Chioma, and his father’s three other wives—found themselves on opposing sides of a cultural tug-of-war.
His mother, pragmatic in her grief, proposed a simple burial two months after the chief’s death, reasoning that they could honor him later with a lavish remembrance ceremony when finances and emotions were in a better place.
But the other wives, driven by the weight of ancestral expectations and the demands of kin, vehemently disagreed.
“It was a real struggle,” Chibundu recalled, his voice heavy with the memory. “I was still in school at the University of Abuja, trying to focus on my studies, but the family battle consumed me.”
His phone rang incessantly. His mother would call, her voice low and strained, pleading with him to return to Imo State and help her make sense of the chaos.
But Chibundu’s elder sister, who was living abroad at the time, begged him to stay away. She feared for his safety, warning that tensions were running high and that an attempt to intervene might lead to violence.
The prince was caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—torn between duty to his family and the haunting possibility of danger. The fight, however, was not just about timing or family rivalries; it was about status and pride.
Chibundu’s father, though modest in life, had accumulated significant wealth and properties. Yet, in death, these assets became a secondary concern.
What truly mattered to the extended family was the spectacle of the burial. The man’s soul, they believed, would find no peace without a ceremony worthy of his status, a grand display of power and opulence that would satisfy the ancestors.
“They wanted a burial that people would talk about for years,” Chibundu explained, his voice growing bitter. “It wasn’t about honoring him—it was about showing off.”
Then came the request that shook him to his core. One day, shortly after finishing his third-year exams, Chibundu received a call from his uncle. His voice was calm, almost businesslike.
“I need you to get access to your father’s bank accounts,” his uncle had said, barely hesitating. “We’ll need at least N20m for the burial. You are his first son. You have the money; give us!”
Chibundu, stunned, stared at his phone. The figure was staggering, the request even more so. “N20m? For a burial?” he recalled asking, and his uncle’s voice was stern. It was N20m or nothing.
“I called my mum immediately,” Chibundu recounted, still sounding incredulous at the memory. “She told me to stay out of it. She said we needed that money to survive now that my dad was gone. How could they expect us to throw it all away on a single day?”
The family’s demands grew more outrageous with each passing week. The elders, in their fervor for a “befitting” burial, took matters into their own hands.
Without warning, they seized the chief’s body and transferred it to a government morgue in a neighboring state, out of reach of the immediate family.
For months, the corpse of the once-revered man languished in cold storage, held hostage by tradition and family pride.
Despite tearful pleas from Chibundu’s mother and siblings, the body was kept from them, cloaked in secrecy, and held under the iron grip of the elders.
Chibundu’s family could do nothing but watch. As the months slipped away, the weight of grief became heavier with each passing day.
It wasn’t until the police intervened, alongside another respected monarch, that the corpse of Chibundu’s father was finally released from the grip of tradition. Eighteen months after his death, the chief was finally laid to rest. But even then, peace was elusive.
The burial was fine, by all standards,” Chibundu said, his voice soft with the exhaustion of recounting the past. “But my uncles were not satisfied.
“They complained that we didn’t slaughter enough cows, that we didn’t perform certain rituals, that the goats we used weren’t sufficient.”
Chibundu paused, frustration evident in his tone. “They said if we didn’t do these things, my father wouldn’t have a smooth journey to the spirit world.”
And so, a man who had spent his life serving his community and family, who had risen from accountant to high chief, had his final moments on earth marred by conflict.
In the end, his burial was not about celebrating his life or grieving his death, but about the spectacle, about the demands of a tradition that left his family fractured.
Chibundu’s story is not isolated. Across Nigeria, especially in the South-Eastern region, families find themselves trapped in the grip of age-old customs that demand elaborate and expensive funerals.
In a country where poverty rate is rising, many are forced to choose between daily survival and the cultural obligation of a grand burial.
For some, this results in months—sometimes years—of storing their loved ones in morgues, waiting until they can gather enough money to meet societal expectations.
Morgues across the country are beginning to overflow, as families, strapped for cash, leave their loved ones’ bodies unattended for extended periods.
The burden of tradition weighs heavily on those left behind, turning grief into a financial and emotional nightmare. In the race to provide a “befitting” send-off, the humanity of the departed—and the sanity of the living—is often forgotten.
In a quiet voice, Chibundu reflected on the ordeal that nearly tore his family apart.
“My father was a good man,” he said. “He deserved peace. But in the end, we gave him a funeral for the living, not the dead. And that is something I will never forget.
