Tatenda was out of place in this gathering. Men in white suits paraded into the church hall with a golden casket. They did jazz hands and shook their bottoms. She felt incensed. No-one was as aggrieved as her. The guests came in their hordes, as if this was the local well, in extravagant red and black gowns. She sat in the crowd in her duku, that hid her hair, and in a plain t-shirt and zambia. 

They were thrown together, odd match-ups of green and pink and white. She wished she had remained outside the church but she had a duty to her late husband. 

Would Nkrumah be able to see her wherever he was? 

Tears had run dry for her; she had cried for two, ethereal weeks. Her face had gone taut and she had red eyes. 

“We are gathered here today, for the funeral service of Nkrumah Kwabena. He was not a man of God, but his wife was an active member of this congregation and in honour of that we stand with her,” Pastor Kofi said solemnly. 

Mr Kofi looked out at the sea of rouge, crimson, onyx and ink in the pews. 

The woman adjacent to Tatenda whispered haughtily to her male companion: 

“Where is this wife of his?” 

Tatenda could feel pointed glances on her torso as she sat in the pews. She curled into herself. The choir sang mournfully and she sang too, hoping to alleviate the ache. If only the service was forever; more was to come. 

The service was two hours then she drove to the graveyard on the city outskirts, where the proper Ghanaian funeral was to occur. There were, what could only be described as, thousands hoarded outside the little area. 

The accursed pallbearers came here with them; now their dancing was more energetic and elaborate. She closed her eyes and exhaled. Men in Volvos, Bentleys, BMWs and Mazdas came in their multitudes with their daughters and wives. All in red or black. Tatenda felt like the black sheep but she would just endure. 

She made her way to the dais built in front of the hole the coffin would be lowered into. The coffin was opened for viewing. The stench from there was not something to be missed as the sun beat down on their backs mercilessly. She was in front but she was held aside by her Pastor. She looked at him with wide eyes. 

“The elders of his family must see him first.” 

Tatenda nodded. Men in striped loose shirts and red hats dawdled or hobbled to the coffin and took off their fezzes in respect, eyes dry but faces taut. She thought it was about the right time for her to go but she had to wait. Old women, guests and other members of the Kwabena clan preceded her. Her shoulders slumped. 

Was she nothing? She was his wife for God's sake! 

She, after three hours in the hot sun, wobbled to her husband's casket. It was black like a mamba's mouth inside, the material a stark contrast to her husband's dashiki suit… A lovely grassy green. His face was scratched and bloody despite the mortician’s best effort to clean him up. One of his arms were broken. Tears flooded from her eyelids then as she remembered the last things, she said to him. 

“I hope you die, Nkrumah Kwabena! You are nothing but a lying goat!” 

She slumped forward on the wooden floor and cried softly. The pastor reassuringly held her shoulder. Another woman from Nkrumah Kwabena’s family scoffed. 

“Who is this girl?” she said narrowing her black eyes. 

Tatenda never answered but Pastor Kofi did. 

“This was Nkrumah's wife.” 

There was a silence that spoke volumes for many in the community. 

Nkrumah had a wife, since when? 

The woman looked at her father. He shook, like a leaf, and wondered what was going on. 

“We should begin the burial,” said Tatenda's pastor. 

The old man next to the once enraged lady clapped his stick on the ground in protest. 

“We cannot bury my son without his brother's presence. Then he will not rest in peace and our ancestors will be outraged.” 

Tatenda looked at the man in shock. 

“Broth...brother?” 

The lady glared. 

“Yes,” she said, as if it was obvious that he had a sibling. 

“Nkrumah never mentioned having any siblings. He only ever mentioned his father.” 

The geriatric man tilted his head. The woman scoffed. 

“That is a lie. Don't tell stories.” 

The man gave a look and she hushed. 

“Don't be rude; today I just discovered I have another daughter -in -law and you want to scare her off with your rude manners. Be silent. I'll talk.”

He hobbled to her. 

“What did Nkrumah say of his father?” 

“He said his father and him were estranged and that he only was raised by his mother who's long since passed on.”

The man frowned, deepening his wrinkles. 

“I see. How long have you known him?” 

“We have been married for two years.” 

The man's eyes bulged. 

“All this time? Why didn't he bring you home? Who are you?” 

“Tatenda, sir.” 

The man frowned; that was not Asante or Ewe or anything Ghanaian. 

“Where are you from?” he said. 

“I'm Zimbabwean.” 

He nodded. He looked at her clothing and it made sense. No one had told her for the rites she was to dress well. So, she didn't. She looked like the villagers on the periphery of the cemetery. 

“I see. Well, we are waiting for Panyin. He is always late; I’m sure for his own funeral he shall be late as well.” 

He shook his head disapprovingly. She cringed at the joke...too soon. 

She was escorted by the man to a seat near the Kwabenas, which had been inaccessible to her before. The embittered lady in red offered her water but Tatenda refrained. She did not want to feel like she was indebted to anyone. 

Another hour passed before the prodigal son came to pay his respects to his dead brother. He was tall and black like a kettle. He wore the typical Ghanaian smock, in red and black, to go commemorate his brother. He came out of his shiny red car. 

Tatenda sighed. She could bury her husband at last. 

But the ancestors of Nkrumah had other ideas…

Panyin had red eyes. He felt his heart battle within him. That man did not deserve his 

tears or anyone's for that matter. He has acted like a true last born... Selfishly. 

He hoped he could just skip the funeral rites altogether but all his sisters and even Papa had gone yet his brother had wronged them more. He sighed, hopping out of his Volkswagen. Not typical amongst the elite but it cost just as much as a BMW or Mercedes.

He straightened his robe and centred his fez as his oxfords crunched in the cracked sand. He received bows and ululations as he passed his subjects. He wondered who the woman was, next to his father, who was not in funeral clothes. 

Tatenda's breath caught in her throat as the brother of Nkrumah approached. He had such a chubby face and a long black beard. His eyes were smoky and full of emotion. She quivered. 

Her dead husband was walking towards her. She saw spots in her vision; then she collapsed. Nkrumah's brother, Panyin watched the woman fall from her chair like a sack of potatoes. His father jumped and a crowd surrounded her. He was curious. It was not often that you could see a woman fainting at a funeral. 

For the why? 

“Panyin.” His father said exasperatedly. 

Panyin urged the group encircling the girl to backup. They made a way for him and he gasped. 

The face was haggard and pallid now, but he remembered it. He shouted at the funeral goers to get away. He knelt on the ground and cradled her neck in his palms. 

“Kristina? Allah, what has happened to you?” 

He looked for an explanation from the circle but they all shied away suddenly uninvolved. 

“What, now you don't know yet you were gathered like vultures before?” 

They bowed their heads. He scoffed. Papa Kwabena waved his walking stick to move away his guests. 

“My son, you know this woman?” 

He closed his eyes and sighed. 

“Yes, I do.” 

His father gazed at him in wonder. 

“How is this, then?” 

Panyin felt her hands, cold to the touch, in the blistering heat. She had heavy perspiration on her brow. 

“Not now, we need to get her to the hospital.” 

“But your brother….” 

Panyin looked at his Papa and scowled, unamused. 

“My brother is dead. She isn't.” 

A shrewd gaze was fixed on Panyin. His sister, Mary clapped her hands. 

“This girl you are running around for, she isn't even your wife.”

Panyin glowered at his large-sized sister. 

“Shut up, Mary. So, you want her to die because she's not my wife?” 

Papa Kwabena watched his face. It was wrinkled by anger. 

“Are you in love with this girl?” he asked his son. 

“Papa, are you serious?” 

Mary retorted he was acting as if he were. 

“Bury your son yourself; if you don't want to help her, I have two hands still to use.” 

The old man and enraged Mary, in red, shouted after him but he strutted to his car and gently laid her in the passenger's seat. He closed the door then got in. 

He floored the gas pedal.