Chapter 1: When the Dead Refuse to Rest

The third year after I die, Baba Aro—the keeper of the ancestors’ gate—ask me if I get any wish. The air thick with the smell of burning palm fronds and old incense, under that ancient iroko tree where the land of ancestors stretch quiet like bush after heavy rain, Baba Aro’s voice carry weight like old story. Im beads dey clink like coins, eyes dey shine with play-play, but na him hold gate key. Even breeze dey respect am.

I just rub my forehead, vexed. “Chisom dey dig my grave again tonight o.”

I drag my wrapper tighter. The annoyance dey burn my chest like fresh pepper. How person go dey dig another person grave like that? Even for spirit world, e no get respect.

Baba Aro wave im big hand. As e wave, breeze just waka from im fingers. For this side, everything get style and drama. E no dey talk plenty, but one hand fit summon thunder. The air turn cold small, chills run my skin.

For the Mirror of Crossing, one tall, slim man dey use hoe dey dig my grave like craze person, with spiritual elders behind am, chanting incantations.

That Mirror na something. E dey show all the wahala for earth, as if dem dey play am for plasma TV. I dey watch as Chisom dey sweat, every muscle for him back dey pop. Those elders, their cloth dey fly like harmattan dey blow, mouth dey move, ground dey vibrate. E resemble proper Nollywood ritual scene.

Because of am, three years don pass, I never cross over. Na only me be the stubborn nail house—the type wey refuse to move even when everybody don shift—for land of the ancestors.

Every other spirit don waka, some don turn to breeze, others don blend inside family tree. Me, I just dey. Some dey look me like I be correct winch, others dey fear say I get wahala. Na only me dey form ogbonge nail house.

(*Nail house: Person wey refuse to move even when everywhere don change.)

As Baba Aro dey look me, I fit see am dey wonder wetin I go talk next. Me sef, na vex dey my body.

I just hiss. “That mumu.”

My hiss loud, even the birds for that side pause. My pride dey ginger me, but my heart still dey pain small.

Suddenly, the guy pause, look up, and face where my spirit dey, come give wicked smile.

My heart twist like cloth for washboard—old love, new wahala, all dey jam for my chest. Goosebumps just run my hand. That smile ehn, na the kind wey dem dey use win stubborn goat for village.

“I don dey burn candle and drop offering for you for three years make you dey watch from under.”

The voice echo for my bone, as if e dey talk direct enter my ear. All this candle and offering sef, I dey chop the meat pie since spirit world.

“Either come back, or...”

Na the ‘or’ dey fear me. Who talk say love no dey turn to curse for Naija?

“I go come down.”

As im voice land, the spirits for roundabout fit feel am, like say thunder don drum for shrine.

I swallow spit. But for my mind, seven days no go reach, wahala go burst.