"Oku Na Cry Fi Dem Dead?!" - My Ancestral Story

Oku Na Cry Fi Dem Dead - The Legacy of Oku The air was thick with the scent of sorrow as my family gathered to mourn the recent passing of my grandmother’s sister. In our Guyanese culture, mourning is not a solitary affair; it is a tapestry woven from shared memories and collective grief. As we exchanged stories, laughter unexpectedly erupted from my grandmother. Among the solemnity, she exclaimed, “Oku na cry fi dem dead?!” Her words, a mixture of humor and disbelief, echoed around the room, prompting my mother to join in the laughter. I sat there, a bemused observer, my Canadian sensibilities struggling to grasp the humor behind her outburst. My mother caught the puzzled look on my face and, with a gentle smile, began to weave the tale behind those words. It turned out that my great aunt had once found herself at a funeral, enveloped in tears and mourning. In her grief, she noticed a stark contrast in the emotions of those around her—an absence of the passion she felt for the lost soul. Frustration bubbled over, and she cried out, “OKU NA CRY FI DEM DEAD?!” This was not merely a question; it was a challenge to the very fabric of familial love and connection. The phrase, which translates to “Does this family show no emotion for the death of our loved one?” became a cherished anecdote, passed down through generations, a reminder of the strength of our bonds even in sorrow. Curiosity gnawed at me, and I asked, “What is Oku?” My mother’s reply was simple yet profound: “Oku is our family tribe living in Berbice, Guyana.” Astonishment washed over me. “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?” I pressed, realizing that this knowledge had been a thread in the fabric of my identity, woven silently but profoundly through our family history. Without delay, I turned to the internet, eager to uncover the roots of Oku. My findings were nothing short of breathtaking. I had always assumed that Guyanese culture was primarily an amalgamation of various African heritages, including Ghanaian influences. Yet, I learned that my grandfather hailed from a secluded part of Guyana, where the Oku people, descendants of Northern Cameroon, had maintained their customs fiercely, resisting the erasure of their identity. These ancestors, brought to the shores of the Caribbean through the horrors of slavery, had lost their tongues and traditions, yet they found ways to safeguard their legacy through oral history. The Oku people were known for their artistry, political acumen, and a deep connection to their spiritual roots. They were storytellers, healers, and skilled artisans, with a culture that cherished community and hospitality. The more I learned, the more I recognized these traits within myself and my family. I had always been an artistic soul, my fingers dancing over the keys of creativity—whether in music, dance, or the visual arts. The thrill of storytelling coursed through my veins, as I recalled evenings spent listening to my elders regale tales of the past, their words painting vivid pictures in my imagination. The warmth and hospitality of the Oku people resonated deeply with me. Family gatherings were synonymous with laughter, storytelling, and an abundance of food—always rich and hearty. Fufu and chicken, staples of their cuisine, reminded me of my love for mashed potatoes, a dish I even served at my wedding. The parallel was striking; both represented comfort, nourishment, and the essence of home. In the wake of my great aunt’s passing, this newfound knowledge provided a balm for my family’s grief. We gathered not only to mourn but to celebrate the life she lived and the legacy she left behind. As the saying goes, after death comes life, and the day marked a turning point for me—a moment of profound realization that would echo through generations. I am Kesha Henry, a descendant of the Oku Tribe, and I will carry this legacy forward. The stories, the art, the warmth of my ancestry will be woven into the fabric of my children’s lives, ensuring that the spirit of Oku continues to thrive long after I am gone.