THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL —EPISODE 1
They said my husband d!ed in an acc!dent, but his ATM card w!thdrew f!ve m!llion the next morning.
If anybody had told me that Chinedu would d!e before daybreak, I would have slãpped the person for saying nonsense. The man left this house on Friday evening, ironed shirt, fresh haircut, even promised to bring me suya on his way back. By midnight, it was police that knocked on my door.
I still remember the way the torchlight scattered my eyes when I opened the door. Two policemen, one wearing bathroom slippers, the other holding a small brown envelope. “Madam, are you Mrs. Ngozi Okafor?” I nodded, and they dropped the bombshell like they were reading meter number. “There was a fatal accident along Umuahia express. A Toyota Camry caught fire. We found your husband’s phone and ID card in the car. We are sorry, ma.”
My legs did not just shake; they disappeared. Neighbors said I fell like somebody pushed me from upstairs. One minute I was standing, next thing my wrapper was on the floor and Mama Peace from next flat was fanning me with a newspaper. Within ten minutes the whole compound was awake. Some came to hold me, others came to confirm if it was true, but the one that pained me was Obinna, his younger brother, that was already asking, “So, how do we go about the burial? Should we move the body to the village or leave it in town?”
People were still talking when they brought the report the next morning: the body was burnt beyond recognition, but the car, the documents, and his phone were inside. They said they would release the corpse after police clearance. My head was hot, my hands were shaking, but what could I say? Which mouth will argue with police and charred remains?
By afternoon, the story had spread past our street. Church members were calling, his shop boys were crying, and the women selling akara opposite the junction were already whispering how Chinedu withdrew five million just last week. “Where is the money?” one of them asked. I wanted to scream at her, but my mouth was bitter like paracetamol.
They brought the coffin by evening for the wake-keep. White paint, cheap wood, smelling of new polish. I sat in the corner, wrapper tied carelessly, watching them carry it into the sitting room like one carries a bag of rice. People came with lanterns and plastic chairs. Some were crying, some were calculating. I kept staring at that box and asking myself: is my husband really inside this thing, or did they bury somebody else’s father and bring me receipt?
THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL
CHAPTER 2
The coffin was still resting in the sitting room when more people started trooping in. Chairs borrowed from the church were lined against the wall, candles already burning low, their wax running like tears on the plates beneath them. The whole place smelled of sweat, perfume, and that strong eucalyptus balm people rub on their chest when crying too much. It felt like everybody suddenly remembered they were related to Chinedu. Cousins I hadn’t seen in three years appeared from nowhere, some with plastic bags of malt and groundnuts, some just with loud voices asking where they should sit.
Obinna, his younger brother, was moving up and down like the landlord of the compound. He kept whispering to one elder uncle about the land in the village and how burial would be cheaper there than in town. Anytime my eyes met his, he would look away quickly like someone that licked sugar he didn’t buy. And then there was Ikenna, Chinedu’s so-called best friend. Normally, he is the one cracking jokes, making people laugh, but this evening his laughter was dry like kerosene wood. He kept going outside to pick calls, his hand always in his pocket, his face looking as if something was pursuing him.
People were arguing in low tones about the burial. Some church members said it would be better here because his shop was in town, others said village tradition must be respected. I just sat on the plastic chair they gave me, wrapper tied loosely, staring at that white coffin as if staring hard enough would open it. The pastor came and prayed, women from the prayer group sang one or two hymns, but my heart was far. Every time the candlelight danced, my mind went back to that f!ve m!llion naira people kept whispering about. Nobody had seen the m0ney. Not even the account balance.
By the time it was late night, most of the noise had died down. Some people stretched themselves on the corridor, some dozed off on chairs, the old women in the kitchen were still peeling yam for the morning. I went to our bedroom to change my wrapper and I could hear voices outside the window. It was Ikenna again. His tone was not the usual friendly one, it was sharp, like when someone is warning a child. “We cannot wait too long,” I heard him say, his back against the wall. “If they open that box and start asking questions, everything will scatter. You hear me? Everything will scatter.”
I stood still, my wrãpper was hãlf t!ed, trying to make sense of it, but he ended the call quickly and walked back in with a fake smile, greeting everybody like nothing happened. My eyes followed him, but he didn’t look my way.
They decided to leave the coffin in the sitting room for the night, saying they would continue with arrangements in the morning. One of the women placed two fresh candles on each side and closed the curtains halfway. People were already spreading wrappers on the floor, preparing to manage some sleep. I sat near the door, my head heavy, my eyes roaming from the coffin to the gate.
It was quiet, that kind of quiet that is not peaceful. Then, just as I leaned back on the chair, I heard it—faint, soft, almost like a mistake—knock… knock… knock on the gate.
They said my husband d!ed in an acc!dent, but his ATM card w!thdrew f!ve m!llion the next morning.
Now,
THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL
CHAPTER 3
The knock came again, this time clearer. Knock… knock… knock. At first, I thought maybe wind was pushing the gate, but the pattern was too deliberate. I looked around. Most of the people had dozed off; the two candles were struggling, their flames bending as if they wanted to run away. My heart was beating too fast for that quiet night. I stood up, tied my wrapper properly, and picked the torchlight from the table. Nobody even asked me where I was going.
As I stepped out, the night air felt colder than before, the type that touches your skin like wet nylon. The compound looked longer than usual, like the corridor had added extra steps. I walked slowly, the torchlight shaking in my hand. The knocking stopped when I reached the gate. I stood still, listening, hoping maybe it was my ears playing tricks. Then I heard it—“Ngozi…” My name. Low, calm, but familiar.
I wanted to run, but my legs betrayed me. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I stretched my hand and pushed the gate slowly, the metal making that crying noise it always makes when you open it at night. The torchlight fell on him. Dust on his shoes, shirt squeezed like he had been fighting with the road, beard rough, eyes red like someone that had not slept for days.
“Chi… Chinedu?” I whispered, because my throat refused to talk louder. My legs lost their power. I held the gate so I wouldn’t fall.
He looked at me like a tired traveler who just reached his own house after a long journey. “Ngozi… open the gate. I’m tired.” That was all he said.
I opened it wider, still not sure if I was touching flesh or spirit. He stepped in, dragging his feet as if they were carrying stones. As he entered the compound, the dogs from the next house started barking. One of the women sleeping on the corridor raised her head, rubbed her eyes, and screamed, “Jesu! Who is that?” Before I could answer, another person woke up, then another, until the whole place became a restless hive.
People rushed with their phones, some holding half-dead torchlights. The coffin was still sitting there in the parlour with the candles burning. Someone shouted, “Blood of God! Is that not Chinedu?” and the noise that followed nearly broke the roof. Some women started praying, one man ran outside as if ghost had entered his body. Obinna came out from the inner room, mouth wide open, staring like he had seen his shadow walking.
Chinedu didn’t answer anybody. He didn’t even look at the coffin. He walked past it like it was not there, like the white box had nothing to do with him. I followed behind him, my wrapper almost falling, my heart asking ten thousand questions at the same time. “Where have you been? What happened? Chinedu, they said you—”
“I’m tired, Ngozi,” he said, voice flat, eyes heavy. “I need to rest. I will explain later.”
He pushed the bedroom door and entered, leaving the rest of us standing there with our mouths hanging open. Obinna was holding his head like someone that lost his bet money. The pastor didn’t know whether to continue praying or to start asking questions.
I turned to look at the coffin again. It was still there, white and silent, with the two candles on each side burning like nothing happened. And that was when the real fear settled in my bones. If my husband just walked in now, then whose body is lying inside that box?
To be continued…
Don’t just read and scroll away. Let’s answer the following questions:
*Who do you think might be inside the box?
*Is Chinedu really dēãd?
*Could that be his Ghost that just entered the house???
THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL
CHAPTER 4
The house smelled of candle wax and cold fear when morning finally came. Nobody slept well, even those who pretended to close their eyes were just waiting for daylight to confirm what their mind saw in the night. Roosters crowed from far away, and one by one people started coming out again, whispering in corners, pointing at our window as if we were keeping a masquerade inside. The coffin was still there, untouched, the white cloth already collecting the morning dust.
By seven o’clock, Obinna had already called the elders. Before eight, the pastor returned with his Bible under his armpit, this time holding it tighter as if the leather would protect him from whatever entered our house yesterday night. The whole compound smelled of questions. People didn’t even greet me properly; they looked at me like I was hiding something under my wrapper.
Chinedu came out from the bedroom looking like someone that just returned from a burial ground—eyes swollen, lips cracked, one side of his shoe still carrying sand. He greeted nobody. He just asked me for hot water to bathe, as if that was the main issue. When his mother tried to ask, “Chinedu, my son, where have you been?” he only rubbed his face with the towel and said, “Mama, I don’t want to talk about it now. I lost my phone, I lost my wallet. I trekked from where I was dropped. I just want to rest.”
Rest. That was the word he kept saying while everybody else was choking on confusion. The elders started their own meeting under the mango tree, their walking sticks drawing lines on the soil as they argued whether to open the coffin or leave it. Police came later, two officers that didn’t even remove their dark glasses. They asked their questions, wrote small things inside one brown book, then faced Chinedu: “Oga, you were declared d**d. Money has been collected, arrangements made. Where did you go?” Chinedu only shook his head and said the same thing: “I was stranded.”
As if that one sentence would carry f!ve m!llion na!ra and return our peace. Because not long after, a call came from the bank. They said five million left his account the morning after the supposed accident. Obinna’s face changed immediately, like pepper entered his eye. “Ngozi,” he said, standing up from the bench, “you have to tell us what you know. Who collected that money? You had access to his card.” The whole place turned to look at me, their mouths hanging open, waiting for my defense.
I felt my throat drying like dry season clothes on a line. “Obinna, how can you say that? Me? Which account did I transfer money to? Was it not you people that handled his things when they said he d**d?” But he didn’t even blink, his voice was already rising, “You are the wife! You knew his pin! Stop pretending!”
The argument was heating up when my phone started to ring. Unknown number. I almost cut the call because my head was already heavy, but something told me to pick it. The voice that entered my ear was not one I knew. A woman. Calm, but sharp like a blade under a wrapper.
“Ngozi… ask your husband about Friday night,” she said.
I held the phone tighter. “Who is this? Which Friday?”
She chuckled a little, that type of laugh that doesn’t reach the teeth. “He 0wes my sister her l!fe,” and the line went dēad.
I stared at the phone as if it would explain itself. My hand felt colder than the morning breeze.
Who was that? Which sister? And what happened on Friday night?
To be continued…
Now I ask again. You people should answer me oo.
*Who was the caller?
*Which sister was she talking about?
*And what happened on Friday night?
*Are you enjoying this story?
*How do you feel when you read my stories.
THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL
CHAPTER 6
Chinedu’s words, “Leave it. For your own good, leave it,” were still hanging in the room like smoke that refused to go out when my phone buzzed again. I didn’t even know when my hand grabbed it. The same strange number from that night flashed on the screen. My heart picked race but I answered.
“Madam,” the woman’s voice came sharp this time, like someone in a hurry. “I no get time to talk plenty. That man wey you dey call husband, he no enter that motor alone that night. Another woman dey inside. Them no even suppose dey that road, but the car catch fire.”
Before I could ask her who she was, the call cut. Seconds later, a voice note entered WhatsApp. My fingers nearly dropped the phone but I pressed play. Her voice filled the parlour, this time slower, clearer. “They planned it. Chinedu was meant to travel with her that night. Ask am well. Ask am where he keep the truth.”
I sat there like somebody that just heard trumpet. My ears were hot, but my body was cold. Chinedu was in the bathroom, the sound of water running like nothing happened. That same man that warned me to leave the matter was the same man now bathing with calm body while my head was scattering.
The next morning, wahala shifted shape. Obinna, his cousin, started moving like rat that found oil in an abandoned pot. He was holding some brown envelope, whispering to one of the compound elders. I didn’t mind him until Mama Nkechi called me to one side, “Ngozi, you don hear wetin Obinna dey do? He wan sell Chinedu shop. He say since government never carry coffin go hospital for official check, he fit still claim say your husband don go.”
My mouth opened and closed like fish out of water. Sēll shop? That same shop Chinedu sweat under sun to build?
Chinedu had gone out before then, so I ran inside and called him on phone immediately. His voice on phone sounded like dry paper, “I dey come.”
By evening, the whole compound was boiling like akara oil. Chinedu came back, with his eyes red, hiss shirt was half-butt0ned. Obinna was already there, standing near the gate with two men. Words turned to noise, noise turned to shouting. “You wan th!ef my life while I still dey breathe?” Chinedu roared, pointing his finger straight at Obinna’s face.
Neighbours came out, some on the side of bl00d, some on the side of benefit.
One man even said, “We never see official paper say you dey alive oh. Na only you dey talk am.”
Before I knew it, slãp landed from one direction, chair fell from another, women started dragging their children inside. The f;ght scattered like dry harmattan fire.
I didn’t even notice when night came. My head was full, my chest tight with questions I could not form. Around midnight, after everybody had gone quiet, I entered our bedroom to pack some clothes, thinking I might just sleep in Mama Nkechi’s room for peace. That was when my leg hit something under the bed. A small black bag.
I bent, dragged it out. It was heavier than it looked. I opened it carefully and what I saw made my breath hang halfway. Bundles of money, some edges black like they had kissed fire. I counted the first row—five million, complete, still smelling of smoke.
I stood there staring at the bag, my hand covering my mouth so I wouldn’t shout. If this money was here, then whose funeral did we bury? And who was that woman on the phone saying another woman was inside that burning car?
The room suddenly felt too small. I closed the bag, pushed it back halfway but my heart refused to follow my hand. For the first time since this drama started, my legs began to shake without breeze touching them.
Could this be the missing money that started all these quarrels? Who kept it here? And if Chinedu truly d!ed that night, who is this man walking up and down with his face?
In my husband’s tradition, they said it was wrong to open to the coffin before the official burial day.
That’s what they said, which was why I’ve never dared to check even from the very day they brought it.
But right there and then, I made up my mind to go and check what really was inside the coffin.
To be continued…
Questions of the day:
*Who really owns the money hiding under that bed, and why is it partly burnt?
*If Chinedu truly died that night, then who is the man walking in and out of that house like he never left?
*What role did Obinna and that mysterious woman play in this strange drama?
*And most importantly, what will Ngozi do with the truth now sitting in her hands?
They said my husband d!ed in an acc!dent, but his ATM card w!thdrew f!ve m!llion the next morning.
Now,
THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL
CHAPTER 7
The corridor was dark when I stepped out, the kind of darkness that makes every sound louder. My slippers dragged the floor as I moved toward the parlour, each step feeling like it was telling me to turn back, but I didn’t. The coffin was still there where they had dropped it since that first day, by the wall beside the big chair, covered with that same dull white cloth the elders used to hide it. I knelt beside it and peeled the cloth slowly.
The wood was colder than I expected. For a while I just stared at the nails around the lid, wondering what kind of truth hides in a box that refuses to talk. My hands were shaking, not because of fear alone but because I knew that once I opened it, my life would not go back the same again. I slid my fingers under the lid and lifted it small, just enough for a smell to escape. It was not the smell of death. It was something else—dry smoke, like burnt nylon.
I pushed further until the lid bent open. Inside was not a man, not even a body. Just old clothes, a wrapper folded around empty bottles, a woman’s gold chain, two bangles, and one black purse that had melted slightly at the side like it had been near fire. Whoever arranged that thing wanted people to believe a body was inside, but it was nothing but packed lies.
I covered it back, heart pounding like pestle on mortar. The room felt hotter, my eyes went straight to the bedroom where that black bag of money still hid. My hands didn’t rest until morning.
By dawn, Chinedu was already at the table eating without looking at me. I dragged the bag out and dropped it beside his plate. “So this is where you kept it?” My voice was low, but it carried weight.
He paused, spoon hanging midair. For the first time since this madness started, his face cracked. He wiped his mouth with his palm and sat back like somebody that had been running for years. “Ngozi, I no plan all this. That night, I was supposed to meet Amara. She said she had one business that will help us pay off my old debt from before we married. I didn’t know she wanted to set me up.”
I folded my arms. “Debt? What debt again? And what of the woman they said burned in that car?”
He rubbed his head. “Amara carried me go meet some people. When I reached there, I saw the thing was not clean. Money they said they wanted to help me recover turned out to be stolen. I ran. I ran before police came. Hours later, I heard the motor had burnt, with a woman inside. I swear I don’t know who she was. I thought it was Amara herself.”
His words dropped like stone inside me. “So you left everything, came back here and watched them bury empty coffin in your name?”
He nodded slowly. “Fear catch me. If I talk, dem go say na me kill her. If I run, na still wahala. I just kept quiet.”
I wanted to shout, to drag him outside and pour everything before the neighbours, but the way his shoulders slumped, the way his eyes refused to lift, something in me paused. Not because I forgave him, but because I knew the story was not complete.
Before I could speak again, my phone beeped on the table. One message. Unknown number. I opened it. The name that appeared almost stopped my heart. AMARA.
“If you want the full truth,” the text read, “meet me at the old warehouse tomorrow by 5 p.m. Don’t tell him.”
I read it twice, then a third time. My fingers turned cold. The same name from his mouth was now typing me directly.
Who was this Amara? What was in that warehouse? And why tomorrow?
I looked at Chinedu. He was staring at me, waiting for a word, maybe a fight, maybe forgiveness. But my mind was no longer in that room. It was already standing at that old warehouse with a thousand questions that refused to sit down.
To be continued…
Guys, it’s time. Let’s answer these questions:
*Do you think Amara is really alive, or is somebody using her name to set Ngozi up?
*Should Ngozi trust that message and go to the warehouse alone, or tell someone first?
*Do you believe Chinedu’s story about running away, or is he still hiding something?
*If it was you in Ngozi’s shoes, would you forgive Chinedu or expose him to the whole village immediately?
THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL
Chapter 8
I didn’t wait for night to fall before my mind started boiling over that message. All through the day, I moved around that house like someone carrying hot coal inside their chest. Chinedu kept asking if I was okay, but I just nodded and forced a small smile. I could not tell him anything. Not yet. The name Amara was ringing in my head like a stubborn church bell.
By four-thirty in the evening, I picked my old bag, wrapped my wrapper well, and told him I wanted to see Mama Nkechi for something urgent. My heart was beating fast as I walked down the dusty road. The warehouse was at the back of that abandoned filling station near the railway line, the one that people said criminals used to hide stolen goods.
When I reached there, the place was quiet like a graveyard. The air smelled of rust and old palm oil. I pushed the half-broken door and stepped in. At first, I didn’t see anyone. Then I heard the soft sound of slippers dragging on the concrete. Amara came out from behind the sacks of cement.
She was slimmer than I expected, wearing a black scarf that covered half her face, her eyes darting around like someone expecting trouble. Her voice was low but sharp. “Ngozi, thank you for coming. I no get plenty time.”
I stood there, my fingers clutching my bag. “Talk straight, Amara. Why did you send me that message? What really happened that night?”
She sighed and sat on one of the broken chairs. “Your husband no k¡ll anybody. Those people that died that night were the same people that wanted to use him to move their stolen money. I was the one that introduced him to them because I thought it would help him pay off his old debt. I didn’t know they were that dangerous.”
Her words were cutting like blade. I took a step closer. “So the burnt car, the woman, the coffin—what was all that?”
She rubbed her forehead. “The man that died was their driver. They used his body to fake everything. They wanted people to believe your husband died so the matter will cool down. But now the money is missing and they think it’s me. They want to finish me. That’s why I need to run. If they catch me, I’m gone.”
I stared at her, my mouth dry. “And what of my own life? You dragged my home into this and you want to run?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were already at the door like someone hearing footsteps. “Ngozi, go back and watch your back. This thing never finish. Those people no dey forgive.”
Before I could say another word, she slipped through the back door and disappeared into the evening dust.
I walked home that night with my legs feeling like stick. The compound was quiet when I entered, too quiet for that hour. I called Chinedu’s name. No answer. His slippers were not at the door. The table was empty. The black bag was gone.
I checked the bedroom, the bathroom, even behind the curtain. Nothing. No note. No trace. Just an empty house breathing in the dark.
……………………………………….
Two nights passed like that, the house feeling emptier with each passing hour. I kept waking up to the sound of lizards crawling on the ceiling, thinking it was his step, only to meet plain silence. The neighbours had started looking at me somehow, the type of look that asks questions with the eyes but never with the mouth. I swept the compound, cooked small rice I could not eat, even washed his old shirts and hung them on the line as if that would bring him back.
On the third morning, just when the sun was coming up behind the cashew tree, a knock landed on the gate, the kind of knock that carries weight. I wiped my hands on my wrapper and went to open it.
Chinedu stood there. Not alone. Two police officers were behind him, one holding a brown file, the other standing like a wall. His face was not the same face that left this house; this one looked drained, like a man that had carried too much secret for too long and finally dropped the load.
“Ngozi,” he said, voice rough like he had not slept for days, “I am ready to talk.”
They entered the sitting room, the same room that had carried so many whispers these past weeks. He sat down without asking for water, eyes fixed on the floor. The officers started writing.
“I went to the station myself,” he said, rubbing his hands. “I told them everything. About the money, about that night, about the people that used my name to bury their mess. I am ready to return what is left and face what comes out of it.”
I stood there, not sure whether to feel anger or relief. My mouth asked before my brain could stop it, “What of Obinna and Ikenna? Where are they in this?”
He raised his head slowly, a bitter laugh leaving his mouth without joy. “They knew. From the start. They were already planning how to share my land, even my old car. They thought I was gone for good.”
The officers nodded; one of them opened the file and showed me papers that carried their names, signed, stamped, as if my husband’s property had already been hanging on their neck like gala.
By afternoon, the news had spread. Obinna and Ikenna did not show face. Their wives walked with head low at the market, people pointing small fingers at them. It was shame that cannot be washed with Dettol.
The elders called for a meeting in the village square. Chinedu stood before them, the same people that once buried empty coffin in his name. His voice shook, but he did not hide. “I failed you. I hid the truth. I made my wife carry pain that was not her own. I want to make it right.”
Murmurs filled the air like flies over meat. Some elders nodded, some spat to the side. I just stood behind him, the wrapper tight on my chest, watching his back as he faced the same crowd that once cried over his fake grave.
Then one old man asked, “Where is the money now? Who else is involved in this matter?”
The air changed. Eyes turned. Even the harmattan breeze paused.
…………………………………..n……..
The question from that old man hung in the air even after the elders left the square. That night was long. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because everybody in the compound now carried a small fire in their chest; some were whispering in their corridor, some were peeping through window curtains like rat heads. I swept the front yard the next morning and saw two women that used to greet me pass without turning their face. It was like we were all waiting to see who would stand, and who would fall.
The days that followed were rough like garri without sugar. Chinedu went in and out of the station almost every week. Sometimes he came back late with dust on his slippers, sometimes he slept over there because they said they were still checking his papers. He started selling small building materials from a wooden shed near the main road, the same road where his name had once been dragged like torn paper. It was not the kind of business that brought quick money, but it was clean, and for the first time in a long while, his eyes could look at me without fear hiding behind it.
I remember one afternoon in March, the sun was beating the zinc, and I found him sitting under the cashew tree in the compound, going through receipts with a biro between his fingers. He looked up and said, “Ngozi, I know I’ve scattered things, but I want you to see that I am trying.” That was the first time in months my throat did not carry insult; I just nodded and went inside to warm the soup. Little by little, the neighbours that used to whisper started to greet again, one by one, like goats testing if the rope is still tight.
By mid-year, most of the debts had been paid. The police dropped the case after he returned the money he could trace. The rest, they said, was better left in God’s hand because too many names were involved that were above our level. Obinna and Ikenna could not raise their head in public again. Their wives packed for a while to their father’s house when the market women refused to sit beside them. It was not loud revenge; it was the quiet type that lasts longer.
When the year started to turn again, Chinedu’s shop was no longer just a wooden shed by the roadside. He had managed to put up a small block structure, painted it with leftover white from a neighbour’s site, and even hung a tiny signboard. It wasn’t the kind of place that made people clap hands, but it was steady. Customers would stop, greet him, pick a few items, and go their way. No more police, no more long whispers behind the curtain. Just a man, his shop, and the slow respect that comes when people finally see you are serious.
I still remember one evening—dry harmattan wind carrying the smell of dust—he came back home early, his shirt soaked from the day’s hustle. He didn’t say much, just dropped his bag, washed his hands, and sat on the doorstep watching the children chase each other in the yard. I brought him a cup of garri with cold water, and for the first time in a long time, we sat without heavy words between us. There was no need to explain what the year had taken. We both knew. But there was also no more running from tomorrow.
Life didn’t turn into a festival overnight. Some neighbours still looked with side-eye, some debts could never be traced, and some scars would never leave. But the noise had died down. The market women now greeted me again. Chinedu started walking like a man whose legs finally matched the ground he was standing on. And that, in our own small way, was enough.
As this story ends, what have you learnt??
Peace is not always loud. Sometimes it is a small shop by the roadside, a cup of garri shared at sunset, and the quiet truth that even after shame, a person can choose to stand again without noise.
At the end of it all, I learnt that the real downfall of a person is not when they fall, but when they stay down because of what people will say. People will always talk, when you fail, when you rise, even when you try again. If you let their eyes keep you on the ground, hunger and regret will finish the rest. But when you decide to stand, even with shaky legs, life begins to respect your courage, and little by little, doors you never thought would open will start to open.
