Siren Symphony

SIR: Nigerian streets are notorious for blaring sirens. Siren symphony in blues punctuates my sleep. Towards the later part of every week, the sound bears a shrill omen that pervades my bedroom.  It wakes my mind to the folk belief of the bad bird that perches on top of the tallest tree in the village and wails of pending doom.

There is a hospital mortuary a little away from my home.  On certain days of the week, mostly Wednesday and Thursday, I hear the sound of a funeral band in my bedroom.  Mumbling of families, around 8:00a.m., gathering in readiness to take the body of a member home for burial ceremony follows. The rumble of a big drum booms to prepare mourners that the procession is about to take off.  The blast of trumpet and the marching goes on.  The music of the siren symphony in blues pierces the air as the ambulance carrying the corpse leads the crusade of harmonies, and the chorus trails off in the wind.

  Another soul departs and the body moves to be deposited underground.  It disturbs my sleep that the bereaving family is momentarily or forever in misery.  The pinch of death commands obeisance to the soul for love lost or vanishing of a symbol of one’s essence. We blossom at sunrise and perish at sundown. The winding sound of the funeral parade breezes inside my bedroom like the moaning of black American blues. The lyric is sorrowful but the melody lifts my spirit.  Today, the wretchedness of my life leaps to a new swing.

Pius Okaneme,

Umuoji, Anambra State.