Pope and pomp: How we would have buried Pontiff

As extravagance defines many VIP burials in Kenya, Pope Francis’ final wishes remind the world of the quiet dignity of humility.

In death, as in life, Pope Francis shunned opulence.

The pontiff's final rites, which took place just days ago, offer a striking counterpoint to the elaborate, high-budget burials often seen for high-ranking figures in Kenya. It is expected to be a farewell marked not by grandeur or theatrics but by grace, simplicity, and profound humility—an embodiment of the values he so passionately championed throughout his papacy.

As outlined in his will, Pope Francis made it clear that he wanted no lavish farewells. He asked to be laid to rest in a plain wooden coffin at the Basilica of St Mary Major in Rome, one of his most beloved places of worship. The funeral costs, according to his wishes, would be covered by an unnamed individual — perhaps a final testament to his lifelong commitment to modesty and discretion.

Now, imagine — just for a moment — if the same man were to be laid to rest in Kenya. Here, a person of the Pope’s stature would likely have been sent off in a ceremony teeming with visual drama and financial flourish. Planning would begin with multiple committees, each tasked with handling different aspects of the grand event — from transport logistics and imported Italian coffins to sprawling tents, sound systems, catering, security, and live television coverage.

The coffin, without doubt, would be a luxurious imported piece, hand-crafted and varnished to perfection, likely costing hundreds of thousands of shillings. The funeral venue would be draped in billowing tents, complete with mobile toilets, air conditioning, and plush red carpets for every guest, no matter how distant their connection to the deceased.

Bouquets in every conceivable colour and shape would decorate the grounds. A state-of-the-art sound system would blare gospel hits and hymns, alternating with performances by government-affiliated choirs and celebrated local artistes, all set to a well-rehearsed programme. The atmosphere would be more carnival than contemplative.

Dozens of camera crews would swarm the event, relaying every moment live across national television. TV personalities would offer minute-by-minute commentary, while members of the public jostled for a moment in the spotlight, eager to share their sorrow and perhaps secure a few seconds of airtime.

Massive LED screens would beam real-time footage to the furthest corners of the venue, ensuring that even those seated at the back didn’t miss a thing. The hearse? A sleek limousine with tinted glass, or perhaps a military-grade carriage or a horse-drawn spectacle — all accompanied by police outriders, blaring sirens, and a heavily armed escort unit keeping thousands of mourners at bay.

Family members would appear in coordinated black designer suits, hiding behind dark sunglasses, each holding glossy, full-colour eulogy booklets.

At the burial site, military bands and uniformed service personnel would perform well-rehearsed drills, complete with parade formations and trumpet solos.

And the grave itself? Not a simple patch of earth, but a tiled tomb worth millions — for in Kenya, prominent figures are rarely laid to rest in plain soil.

The day would end with an extravagant feast, with gourmet meals served buffet-style under gleaming canopies, accompanied by bottled water, soft drinks, and whispered comparisons of who wore what.

By close of business, millions would have been spent — some say wasted — in an attempt to offer a “decent” send-off, though one wonders what truly defines dignity in death.

In stark contrast, Pope Francis’ final instructions raise a quiet but powerful question: must death be an occasion for spectacle?

In the end, the Pope needed no pomp. Just a prayer, a plain coffin, and a people who remembered the spirit, not the show. Perhaps that’s the most powerful send-off of all.