Chapter 1: Land Wahala

When I was small, the village used to share land according to how many people dey for each house. The elders for council square, their wrappers knotted high for waist, slippers dusty from morning sun, would argue and point, counting every child and grown man, knowing land be like oil—you fit quarrel over am till sunset. One day, Musa Nwachukwu come meet my grandpa and say, "Uncle Bala, my papa no well, e no fit comot for house. Abeg, make you allow me press thumbprint for the land sharing on top him behalf?"

My grandpa puff two times from him dry tobacco pipe and reply, "Musa, I sabi say your papa no dey strong. Just the other day, wild bush pig bite am for head. Make e just dey house dey recover, e no suppose comot. But this time, the land wey dem dey share na correct land. The person wey get the land must show face come press thumbprint, and e must happen for front of all the villagers. If not, dem no go gree."

As my grandpa talk, the smoke curl for his mouth, drifting up like stubborn mosquito for harmattan night. The men sitting under the mango tree shift, some nod, some eye Musa like say him dey talk wetin no pure. Even the goats for the corner pause chewing, listening as if they sabi the matter. Land wahala get way e dey make the whole village alert, make people mind dey sharp.

He swallow spit, eyes darting to the ground, then face grandpa. Musa Nwachukwu come squeeze face, beg am, "Uncle Bala, the chemist talk say my papa sickness no suppose see breeze—e must dey inside to recover. If air touch am, e fit wound go worse, e fit even die. Abeg, Uncle Bala, help us just this once. My family no get money. We really need better land take survive."

His voice tremble as he speak, eyes watery, hands clinging to his faded shirt. The market women in the far background dey gossip, side-eyeing Musa and whispering, 'poverty dey bite that family.' Their voices blend with the clatter of frying pans and pepper scent in the air. Musa’s desperation hang for the air like heavy rain about to fall, you fit hear am for the way him voice shake.

My grandpa come frown well, sigh, "Musa, no be say I no wan help you, but the villagers no go gree. You remember that Baba Lami for next village? Both him mama and papa die, but because of land, e delay their burial, come use scope collect seven or eight plots of better land from the village. If everybody dey do like am, how dem wan share land reach everybody?"

As he mention Baba Lami, the story come back to everybody mind—how the man postpone burial, all because of farmland. Even children dey fear the name, because his greed nearly cause village war that year. The memory still fresh like morning pap, making Musa shift uneasy.

As my grandpa finish, Musa face come hard. E talk, "Uncle Bala, my papa still dey alive true true. I no dey do like Baba Lami."

You for see as him jaw set, lips tight like yam pound hard. He talk as person wey dey vex say dem dey compare am to that notorious man. The respect for old people body dey show for the way Musa still dey use 'Uncle,' even as im voice dey rise.

My grandpa nod, "I know say you no do wetin Baba Lami do. But if the person no show to press thumbprint, villagers no go gree."

As the words drop, a kind quiet settle for the place. The leaves for the ogbono tree above even stop to rustle. My grandpa look Musa for eye, showing him say na tradition dem dey follow, no be wickedness.

Musa eyes dey run up and down, e still dey beg, "Uncle Bala, abeg reason am. My papa medicine need money. Na this land we dey take survive."

E talk am, voice low, almost like whisper, hands open like person dey beg God. One woman selling akara for roadside shake her head, "Kai, this boy dey suffer." The ache for Musa voice touch even small children wey dey play nearby, dem pause to listen.

My grandpa puff him pipe again, sigh, "Musa, make we do am like this: I go hold the land for you. When your papa fit come outside, make e press thumbprint for front of everybody, then e go settle."

You for see as my grandpa voice soft small, showing small pity. The way elders dey try balance law and human feeling dey different for village; no be everything dem fit bend.

Musa frown, e no too happy. "Uncle Bala, you no fit just help us this time? You sabi as my papa body be."

He look ground, shoe dey draw pattern for sand. Some of the men for background whisper to themselves, 'E get as this Musa stubborn.'

"I know," my grandpa answer, "but this land matter na big thing for village. No be only me go decide."

He say am with finality, as the council of elders na wahala people. If you try bend law, dem go summon you for night meeting, and that one na big shame.

Musa face come change, e eyes sharp like knife. "Okay, Uncle Bala, I no go stress you. Tomorrow, for the land sharing, I go carry my papa come."

As Musa talk am, his body stiff, like person wey don lose hope. He look my grandpa one kind, like say trust don finish, then turn face away.

"Musa, no need rush. I go hold the land for you. When your papa fit come outside, just bring am come press thumbprint," my grandpa talk.

The way grandpa talk, e voice carry weight, showing say e no wan quarrel, but e go stand by wetin be right.

Musa reply coldly, "Uncle Bala, if na so, I dey go house."

E voice cold like morning harmattan, and as e talk am finish, him feet kick sand as e waka go.

As e talk am finish, Musa just waka comot.

The elders shake head, some murmur, 'trouble dey grow for this matter.'

My grandpa sigh, "Wahala dey for this matter."

He tap pipe for his palm, sending old ash fall for ground. The weight of the matter press him shoulder, and for small voice, he whisper old prayer, "Chineke, help me see this one finish."

As e talk finish, my grandma come out from the store room, vexing. "Nwachukwu Senior don die finish. Na land Musa dey find, na why e come."

She tie her wrapper tight, hands akimbo, eye red like she see pepper. She slap palm against thigh, voice rise, no care who dey listen. Village women, once dem suspect matter, no dey hold mouth. She carry voice reach kitchen, make sure all neighbors hear.

My grandpa take slow puff from him pipe, "Old woman, no dey talk anyhow. Nwachukwu Senior na better person. No dey curse person."

He glare at her small, reminding her of respect wey dem suppose show elders, even if wahala dey.

Grandma hiss, still dey vex. "The day Nwachukwu Senior get accident, I go see am. Wild bush pig bite him head, blood full everywhere—e dey die, e breath no reach. Those wild pigs for back bush big pass three, four hundred kilo, tusk reach seven, eight centimeters. If dem bite your head, even if you no die that time, you no go last more than some days."

She gesticulate as she dey talk, hand waving for air. 'Those pigs big pass village cow! The way the bush shake that night, even the moon hide,' she add, voice full of old fear.

My grandpa squint eye, "No possible. Musa dey respect him papa. If the papa die, e go do burial. E no go leave am rot for house."

He remember Musa as small boy, always greeting with both hands, kneeling for elders. To him mind, the Musa he know no fit do abomination.

Grandma twist mouth, "If e dey respect am, e no go allow am go back bush go find firewood. Na land e dey find, na why. You be village head, e no send you at all."

Her tone sharp, like broom wey sweep stubborn sand. She turn face, spit small on ground, showing say she no get patience for the matter.

"No possible," my grandpa insist. "I watch Musa grow. E no fit do that kind thing."

He shake head slowly, as if him dey try push away bad thought. Inside him chest, worry dey knock but he still hold on to hope.

Grandma cut in, "If na to cheat land, delay burial no mean anything. Wetin dey fear me pass be say e fit carry the papa do living dead."

She lower voice for last line, glancing left and right like person wey talk taboo. The firewood for kitchen snap as if e dey echo her fear.

My grandpa freeze, e eyes come get panic. "No possible. Musa no fit reach that level."

His pipe nearly drop from hand, voice tremble, mind run wild with fear. Living dead matter na thing wey only old people whisper about for dark.

Grandma hiss, "No be today e start. No go dey trust Musa too much."

She hug wrapper tight for chest, her eyes narrow, like say she fit see Musa through wall. The silence in the house thick, even cockroach wey dey pass stop to hear.

As elders talk am, for olden days, people born plenty pikin just to collect land. But when food no reach, some go even throway pikin. Some go even raise 'living dead'. After land don share finish, dem go burn the living dead.

The room chill with old fear. Stories of 'living dead' dey hover, reminding all say greed fit turn man to beast. The elders' words hang for air like old palmwine song.

My grandpa face come dark. "I go go Musa house go check am."

He talk am with that type of resolve wey you only see when elder get heavy matter for heart. He start to tie wrapper for waist, ready to move.

As e wan go, my grandma stop am. "No dey rush. Wait small."

She block the doorway, old hand firm as iroko. The way she stand, you go know say she no go let am pass anyhow.

She enter store room, come out with raffia basket wey get seven, eight eggs. "Carry something go."

She hand am the eggs, muttering, 'No go empty-handed enter person house.' In village, small gift dey remove quarrel from visitor hand.

My grandpa nod, "Okay."

He balance the basket carefully, his mind still heavy, but he respect old woman's wisdom. For this life, no be only age, na sense too dey matter.

Grandma add, "Carry Seyi too. I go help Kafayat wife soon."

She nod to me, using eyebrow signal. For her mind, small boy eye dey see wetin adult fit miss. She trust me to watch my grandpa well.

"Okay," my grandpa agree.

He call me, pat my head, tell me to follow close and no run anyhow. I dash inside, grab my small slippers, ready to go see Musa house wahala.

So my grandpa carry me, we waka go Musa house. No too far. Soon, we reach.

The sun dey hot, but breeze still dey blow small. I fit hear our slippers drag for sandy ground. The path pass mango trees, where lizard dey sun themselves. When we reach, I squeeze my grandpa hand tight, my own heart dey do 'kpim kpim'.

Main gate wide open. As we enter compound, sharp smell of blood jam me for nose.

The kind smell wey make stomach twist—like when goat dey slaughtered for festival, but this one worse. Flies don begin gather, buzzing for air. I pinch my nose small, look my grandpa, e face no change but I know say e dey notice too.

My grandpa face come serious. E stand for yard, shout, "Musa!"

His voice loud, echo for empty compound. Birds fly from tree, startled. Even the breeze pause, as if him voice dey chase away evil spirit.

No answer.

The silence thick, like say house dey swallow sound. I look around, see broken gourd and scattered firewood. Something no pure for the air.

E look around, shout again, "Musa!"

This time, voice carry small anger, warning hidden inside. I squeeze his hand, my body dey shiver.

That time, Musa come out from store room, blood full him hand and cloth.

He wipe sweat from brow with back of bloody hand, eyes flickering from grandpa to me, as if searching for escape. Blood still dey drip from him finger, eyes red like person wey chop pepper and no get water. The way he walk, e body dey shake, like say im dey hide something.

As e see my grandpa, Musa force laugh two times, "Uncle Bala, wetin carry you come?"

The laugh no sweet, e sound empty. He wipe blood for shirt, try hide hand behind back. I shift behind my grandpa, small fear catch me.

My grandpa smile, "I come see your papa. Why blood full your body like this?"

He smile small, but eyes dey sharp—elder wey dey smell secret. He step one foot forward, chest out, letting Musa know say e no dey fear.

Musa laugh, "I just kill rabbit, blood stain me."

He talk am too quick, like say him prepare lie before we come. He avoid my grandpa eye, use foot kick at sand.

E look west room side. "Uncle Bala, you no come good time. My papa just sleep."

He point with shaky finger, eyes darting everywhere. The window of west room dark, curtain thick, like person no wan make sun enter.

My grandpa look the west room. Door and window seal well, even glass get thick wrapper cover am, no light dey enter.

Even for midday, the place dark. Breeze no dey pass, no sound of cough or movement. I shift close to my grandpa, heart dey beat fast.

"Musa, you seal that room well. Your papa fit breathe? Just dey look am, body dey hot."

My grandpa ask, voice full concern but eyes still sharp. Old men sabi test person with question, to see if lie dey mouth.

Musa force laugh, "My papa dey fear breeze, na why we seal everywhere."

He talk am, scratch head, eyes still no meet my grandpa own. For village, sealing room like that na strange thing, unless person dey hide something.

My grandpa nod, "Okay, since your papa dey sleep, I no go disturb am. Take these eggs, e go help am recover."

He pass the basket, saying, "Person wey give egg, no dey wish you wahala." His hand steady. In his voice, I hear that silent warning: 'If you dey lie, I go soon catch you.'

E give basket to Musa, who smile, "Thank you, Uncle."

The smile short, flash for face like candle wey wind blow. He drop the basket near his feet, fingers still blood-stained.

That time, cough start from the west room, then Nwachukwu Senior voice come out: "Third brother."

The cough sound dry, scrape like broom on cement, echo for the sealed room. The sound weak, but angry. Like old man wey dey quarrel, but voice no strong again. I shiver small, cold run my spine.

My grandpa look Musa. The smile for Musa face vanish, e face come hard, eyes sharp. E look the west room with one kind eye, then force smile. "Uncle Bala, since my papa sick, e dey vex anyhow. E dey throw things, dey curse people. Better make you dey go."

He talk quick, voice high. The way e stand for door like soldier guard prison, you go know say wahala dey.

My grandpa look Musa for eye, "Musa, you dey hide something from me?"

His voice low, but heavy. As if him fit pull the truth from Musa mouth with just him stare.

Musa face come twist, "No...no, na just say my papa fit vex for you."

He shift foot, look ground, rub neck. Sweat begin show for his forehead, despite morning cold.

My grandpa talk strong, "Since your papa dey awake, I go enter see am."

He step forward, no fear for body. Even I dey fear for him.

E begin waka go west room. Musa face change, e rush block the door. "Uncle Bala, my papa no fit see breeze!"

His voice loud, panic full am. He block the door, arms wide, ready to push my grandpa back if need be.

"I just wan look am," my grandpa insist.

He try shift Musa, showing say he no be small boy. For village, elder right na sacred, especially when life dey involved.

Musa snap, "Uncle Bala, chemist talk say if breeze touch my papa, e fit die. If you force am and e die, I no go forgive you."

He voice sharp, hand shake. That kind threat, e no dey talk to elders anyhow. Even wind pause, listening.

My grandpa face come hard. E go window, shout enter the room, "Nwachukwu Senior, I come see you. How your body dey?"

His voice big, command respect, echo enter sealed room. Even the fowls for backyard freeze.

No answer.

The silence deep, like say ground swallow sound. My heart beat louder, my small hand hold grandpa wrapper tight.

E raise voice, "Nwachukwu Senior, talk something. How you dey feel?"

He shout, almost like person dey call spirit from grave. My ear ring with the tension.

Still no answer.

The only thing I hear na distant cock crow, far for neighbor compound. Even Musa begin sweat more, wiping brow with elbow.

Musa talk, "Uncle, the wild pig bite affect my papa ear too. Sometimes e dey hear, sometimes e no dey hear."

He voice low, like person wey dey beg. But lie dey his mouth—e dey obvious for the way his eyes dart.

My grandpa frown, "Musa, how your papa dey really?"

He lean in, waiting for truth. Even my own small heart dey reason, 'maybe something bad don happen.'

Musa look am, "My papa dey alive, just need recover. Uncle Bala, abeg no worry. Make you go house."

He talk am fast, almost pushing us with words. His body block door well, as if him go die before you fit cross.

My grandpa look the west room, worry dey him eye.

He rub chin, deep in thought. The silence grow heavy, even leaves stop to move. I feel small cold for my back.

As e dey reason am, Musa add, "Uncle Bala, I be my papa pikin. Why you no wan believe me? I no allow you see am because I dey fear say something fit happen to am."

He voice break small at the end. I see tears start for one eye. Even so, my grandpa eye no shift, him suspicion still strong.

My grandpa face come more worried. E shout again, "Nwachukwu Senior, I dey go. When you better, I go come greet you again."

He linger for moment, waiting for any reply. Still, only cough echo come out small.

Musa try smile, "Uncle Bala, take care for road."

He open small gap for us to pass, eyes still watching if we go try force enter. The smile crooked, like say e pain am to smile.

My grandpa nod, carry me commot the yard. As we reach gate, e look back the west room, like say e dey hope to hear Nwachukwu Senior voice. But everywhere quiet.

He hold my hand tighter, and I hear him whisper under breath, 'Kai, this world get secrets.'

E sigh, carry me go house.

The walk back long, feet heavy. No sound, just the breeze brushing dry leaves. My grandpa drag foot for sand, mind full of thoughts.

As we reach house, my grandma ask, "You see Nwachukwu Senior? E still dey breathe?"

She wait for answer, hands on waist, her eyes shine sharp like new knife.

My grandpa shake head, "No, Musa no gree."

His voice weak, as if the truth dey hard to carry. He drop the basket empty, sit for bench, hands trembling small.

Grandma hiss, "If e no gree, e get wetin e dey hide. Something no pure. Nwachukwu Senior don die."

She spit for side, shake head, mutter 'God forbid bad thing.' Her tone strong, like person sure for him talk.

My grandpa shake head, "No, I hear Nwachukwu Senior voice. E call me 'third brother' from inside. I wan enter, Musa no gree, say if breeze touch am and e die, na me cause am."

He sigh deep, eyes watery. The way he talk, you go feel the weight wey dey press him chest.

E sigh again.

The air thick with old people's breath, fear dey float for ceiling. I sit near my grandpa leg, no talk, just listen as drama dey unfold.

Grandma hiss, "That Musa no get respect for you as village head. Na just to chase you comot. Something dey happen."

She stamp foot, wrapper flap, vex dey her body. I see anger for her eyes, more than ordinary village matter.

My grandpa reply, "Wetin fit happen? I hear Nwachukwu Senior voice, so e dey alive."

He try reason am, voice shaking, but hope still dey struggle inside him mind.

Grandma twist mouth, "Maybe e dey alive, but Musa just dey wait make e die finish."

She look window, spit for ground, shake head like say the world don spoil finish. For her tone, na warning dey hide inside.

My grandpa pause, "If e die, e no go fit collect land."

He rub his head, lost in thought. I see his face squeeze, like man wey dey remember old law.

Grandma face change, "Old man, you forget how dem dey raise living dead?"

Her eyes round, voice drop low. She draw chair near, lower her voice, and I move closer, my own small body dey shiver with fear.

As she talk am, my grandpa eye open wide, fear full am.

His hand grip chair, pipe nearly fall. Even me, I start dey shift for seat, fear crawl my neck.

Elders talk say, 'living dead' na person wey dem dey feed with human blood. If person just die, you dey pour human blood for him mouth for seven days, e fit turn to living dead.

The room cold, memory of such abomination dey run round wall. Old stories from fire night tales come alive: people run for bush, some never return. 'Living dead' na taboo, na evil pass any other.

My grandpa mumble, "If Musa really do that one, e no be human being again."

He talk am like curse, as if only to mention am fit spoil ground. His face dark, wrinkle deep for forehead.

Grandma say, "Na that one dey fear me. If Musa no fit control am, that thing fit commot go harm people."

She fold hand, stare wall. For her face, you go see old scars—pain of past loss, memory of things wey eyes no suppose see.

My grandpa face come hard. "No, I must go Musa house again."

He stand up, strength return. For his voice, you fit hear say old age no dey stop man when e matter reach spirit wahala.

Grandma stop am, "No rush. Wait till tomorrow for the land sharing. Tell everybody for village make all of us go Musa house. If Nwachukwu Senior dey alive, give Musa land for front of everybody. If e don turn living dead, burn am."

She speak with authority, her voice no dey shake. When matter reach this kind level, na women dey get sense pass.

My grandpa nod, "Okay."

He sit back, rub his knees. The night deep, but no sleep for house. I close eye, but dream full of shadows and whispers.