When grief wears purple

A few weeks ago, I stood quietly in a small church in rural Spain. A close relative had died, and we had gathered for her funeral and burial. The event was solemn and restrained, as one might expect in that part of the world. There were no elaborate decorations adorning the modest church walls, no particularly moving songs to lift our spirits, and certainly no discussions about what to wear. The air hung heavy with grief, thick and palpable. People spoke in hushed tones, if they spoke at all. We prayed. We wept. And then, like mourners have done for centuries in this tradition, we simply went home, carrying our individual grief.

Just a few days after returning to Nigeria, I attended in Lagos the funeral mass of an old friend. This ceremony was one piece of an elaborate farewell—there had already been a service of songs. Still to come were a night of tributes, the interment, a reception, and at week’s end, a thanksgiving ceremony. Even as the most subdued of these events, the church funeral opened a window into a profoundly different approach to grieving from the one I had experienced a few weeks earlier. The family of my late friend had suggested that guests wear purple, a colour symbolising royalty and mourning in many cultures. As the soft morning light filtered through the church windows, I could see that a sea of purple spread across the pews of the church. The congregation created a colourful display that spoke volumes about the Nigerian approach to commemorating life. Though the occasion was undeniably solemn, and many men—being a working day morning—wore dark suits, the visual quality of the gathering was striking. There was beauty, a sense of community, and an unmistakable aesthetic sensibility.

What caught my attention at the church wasn’t just the colour itself, but the many variations on display. Purple, after all, is not one shade but an entire spectrum, a universe of hues. In that church, I saw many of them: from the rich, royal purples and deep aubergine to the gentle, almost pink tints of dresses in mauve, lavender, magenta and violet cloths. Some women wore traditional ‘iro’ and ‘buba’ in deep plum tones, the fabric catching light as they moved. Others had chosen lace and embroidered dresses in violet hues. In the pew before mine, one woman wore a blouse in the palest lavender. Beside her sat another in a full-length dress of lush purple velvet, the material so rich it seemed to absorb rather than reflect the ambient light. I did not fail to notice a man who had added a splash of colour into his otherwise neutral outfit by wearing a violet scarf. It was not uniformity, but a diverse show of beauty that also celebrated life, respect, and community.

I also saw how this communal aesthetic contains a form of politics often overlooked by casual observers. In a nation with so many significant ethnic, religious, and economic differences, these shared communal aesthetic experiences create moments where those divisions fade into the background. There was a solemnity to it all, but also a kind of joyous defiance: death had come, but life had not surrendered. In Spain, what sustained us was our faith that death is not the end. In Nigeria, I felt its transformation, the way a community reshapes grief into something that can be shared, expressed, and even, in its way, celebrated.

I am not romanticising grief. The pain of loss was real and deep. But what struck me was the beautiful and communal way in which this pain was held. Though some surely dressed up out of social obligation or vanity—as happens in any culture—I believe most approached their attire as a gesture of care, of intentionality, and of profound respect. The dress code, the “colour of the day”, was not a command but a cultural invitation. And people responded with creativity and seriousness that, in a small but significant way, helped make the event an aesthetic experience as well. We had come to grieve, to mourn, and to pray, but soon I realized we were doing so together in a way that had a genuine aesthetic quality. In a sense, we were all part of a cast, and our “costumes” spoke volumes about our shared humanity in the face of loss.

Sometimes, we overlook the importance of this kind of communal aesthetics, which extends far beyond funerals in Nigeria and in other places. As an outsider who has made this country my home for decades, I am still moved by these moments of collective expression. There is something profoundly human about them that transcends cultural differences. In a world that often isolates grief—that treats it as a private burden to be shouldered alone—we are invited to give it form, dress it, sing it, dance it. It refuses to reduce death to an individual loss; it insists on its communal meaning. This is where the aesthetics of Nigerian life seems to stand in sharp contrast to those of many Western societies. In much of the West, aesthetics are often seen as primarily individualistic—an expression of personal taste, private sentiment, or minimalist elegance. But in Nigeria, aesthetics are powerfully communal. They are co-created and co-experienced. The aesthetic appeal of the occasion lies not in any single outfit or voice but in the collective array. The colours, songs, greetings, and gestures come together to form an event that belongs to everyone present. It is shared, lived, and remembered collectively.

Later that day, I spoke with several people about the tradition of colour coordination at funerals, weddings, birthdays and other celebrations. Someone explained that the tradition had evolved from older practices where extended families would wear

‘matching fabrics (aso ebi),’ to show solidarity with the immediate family of the deceased or celebrant. These conversations made me realise that the aesthetics of a Nigerian funeral are not accidental. They are the product of centuries of cultural tradition, constantly adapting and evolving. They combine religious solemnity with African vitality, European liturgy with Yoruba, Igbo, or Edo expressiveness. And they challenge those from more restrained cultures to reconsider the boundaries between sorrow and celebration, between individual grief and communal support.

Western aesthetic theory has long privileged the individual genius, the singular artist creating works for individual consumption. But communal aesthetics operates on fundamentally different principles. What I witnessed in that sea of purple was an aesthetic system where beauty emerges not from individual brilliance but from collective participation. The visual impact of hundreds of garments in multiple variations of purple created something no single designer could achieve. It is communal aesthetics achieving beauty through many bodies, many choices, all operating within a shared framework.

I left the funeral moved not only by memories of my friend but by the experience itself. In the swirl of purple, in the echo of songs, in the warmth of reconnecting with people I hadn’t seen in years, I experienced a culture that has found a way to hold beauty and sorrow in the same hand. A culture that understands that grief need not be austere to be genuine. Back at home that night, I thought again of the quiet burial in Spain, with its muted colours and restrained expressions. And I wondered: what if we had brought a bit of purple there, too? It would not have changed the fundamental sadness of losing her. But perhaps it might have reminded us that even in death, life asks us to see, to feel, to sing—and yes, even to dress for the occasion. Perhaps, I should add a purple shirt to my wardrobe after all—not just for Nigerian funerals, but as a reminder that beauty can exist alongside sorrow.

Jess Castellote PhD

Director of the Yemisi Shyllon Museum of Art, Pan-Atlantic University