Chapter 2: The Roadside Grave

Na when I be nine years old I die.

Because I too small, the church elders talk say I no fit get proper grave. Dem say na the rule.

The elders dey form authority, dey twist face like say dem sabi pass everybody. For my small mind, I dey wonder if spirit get size, if my own small body no reach to deserve better send-off. But for our place, tradition na tradition.

I just dey look as dem put my body inside small black coffin, come bury me for roadside near palm tree.

The palm tree get old root, e big, e dey hum for breeze. Sometimes I feel say the tree dey whisper to me at night, like say e dey try comfort me small.

Mama come cry for my grave many times.

She go dey sob so tay her body go dey shake.

She remember how she used to braid my hair under the same palm tree, her hands gentle, now heavy with regret.

She go dey beg, dey slap her own face, dey talk say, “Why e no be me wey die?”

Tears go soak her wrapper, she go drag sand, rub am for her face, as if pain fit comot with dirty hand. Neighbours go try hold her, but she no dey listen.

Everytime, I go hold her hand, dey tell am:

“Mama, I no blame you. Abeg, no cry again.”

I go kneel beside her, try wrap my spirit hand around her own, but na air dey pass my fingers. My voice dey float like smoke for harmattan—nobody dey hear me. Even fly wey dey perch for her ear no fit carry my whisper.

But Mama no dey feel me, she no dey hear my voice at all.

Papa come sometimes too.

He pour small schnapps for sand, whisper my name three times, then drop chin chin beside my headstone.

He go bring doll, small puff-puff, sit down for my small grave, rub am like say na my head e dey pat, dey talk:

“Yanyan, I dey sorry… na Daddy cause am.”

“These na the birthday gift wey I suppose give you when you turn nine.”

“Daddy… never still carry you go amusement park…”

As he dey talk, Papa go begin cry.

E go hide face, dey sniff, sometimes e go try clear throat like man, but the tears no dey gree stop. People go pass, some go pretend say dem no see am, others go just hiss, dey say na wetin him cause.

The aunty from next compound go stand for back, dey pat him shoulder, dey try calm am small small:

“No dey too sad. Even if Yanyan dey for spirit world, she go sad if she see you like this. If you wan blame anybody, na her mama you go blame. She kill her own pikin—how person fit do that kind thing? Dem say when goat die, na the owner dem go ask.”

The aunty go hiss, shift wrapper for her chest, eye dey sharp like person wey dey ready fight. She go dey rub Papa back, her voice like ice block inside water.

I just bow my head, my mind no sweet me, I softly talk:

“But aunty, na you first scatter our family.”

My voice low, but my chest dey pound. For that spirit place, pain dey even pass wetin body fit handle.

Papa go choke on him words, ask, “Yanyan, for next life, you go still be Daddy pikin?”

I just pause, I no talk anything.

My heart dey heavy, the words choke for throat. If next life sure, who I go choose? My spirit just float, dey lost.

Many people come my grave: my classmate, teacher, even my best friend.

All of them bring food wey I like.

Rice with big stew, chin chin, zobo—dem know wetin my belle dey crave. My best friend even bring her favourite pink ribbon, tie am for one stick beside my grave. The thing sweet me small.

All of them cry.

I wan comfort them, tell them make dem no dey sad again.

But nobody dey see me, nobody dey feel me.

My voice na like feather for harmattan, just dey drift away. Sometimes, I dey wonder if I still dey here at all, or if na only memory hold me down.