My husband pays me Million's every December to cry over his living b0dy in a cásket, but this year, something has gone têrrîbly wrõng.
The first time Chief brought the cásket into our living room in Banana Island,
I faînted.
I thought he was prânking me, or maybe he had joined one of those strânge cülts my mother always wârned me about. But Kolawole was calm. He sat me down on our Italian leather sofa, held my hands, and explained.
“Babe, it is just a rénewal,” he said, his voice smòòth like velvet. “Every year, I must ‘d!e’ so that our wèàlth can live. You will cry for me, mõurn me from 6:00 PM on the 10th to 6:00 PM on the 11th. Once the time is up,
I wake up, and the contracts for the next year are sealed.”
I wanted to run. I wanted to pack my bags and flee to my parents' house in Epe. But then, the âlart entered my phone.
Credit: N5,000,000.00.
“For your strëss,” he smîled.
Money has a way of sîlencing your cõnscience, especially in this Lagos. So, I ágreed.
For four years, we did the rõutine. Every December 10th, the drîver, Sunday, would bring in a shîny, white màhogany casket. Kola would bathe in black soap, wear a white lace agbada, and clímb inside. I would sit on the fl00r, wearing black, and I would waîl.
I crîed until my eyes were swõllen. I scréámed his name. I acted like the grîeving wîdow. And exactly at 6:00 PM the next day, Kola would sit up, snèèze three times, and step out looking younger and fresher.
But yesterday was different.
The rîtual started as usual. Kola entered the casket at 6:00 PM. I started my crying. The house was sîlent, except for the hum of the central AC and my fáke sõbbing.
Around 3:00 AM, I got tîred. I went to the kitchen to drink water. When I came back, the atmosphere in the living room had changed. It was heavy. The air smèlled like… rõtten méát.
I walked to the open casket to check on him. Kola was there, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest. But his skin looked grey. Too grey.
I touched his hand. It was îce cold.
“Kola?” I whîspered. “Nna, stop playing now. It’s scâry.”
He didn't move.
I checked his chest. It wasn't rîsing. I put my ear to his mouth. No brèàth.
Féàr grîpped my thrõat. I shõok him vîolently. “Kola! Kola wáke up!”
Nothing.
I checked the time. It was only 4:00 AM. He still had 14 hours to go. I told myself it was part of the dèèp tránce. Maybe this year the rîtual was strõnger.
I sat there, shàking, watching the clock tick. Tick. Tick.
6:00 PM came today.
I stood up, wîping my face, waiting for the sneeze.
I waited for him to sît up and ask for his Maltina like he always
6:05 PM. Sílence.
6:30 PM. Nothing.
7:00 PM.
I started scréáming for real this time. I shoôk him, I slápped his face, I põured water on him. My husband is stîff. He is stõne cold.
I called the number of the "Baba" he usually visits in Bâdagry, the number he told me to call only in an émergency.
The man picked up on the first rîng.
“Madam,” the voice cròaked, soünding like grînding stones. “Did you stop crying? Did you leave his side?”
“I… I went to drink water,” I stámmered.
“Ha!” The man scréámed. “You bròke the círcle! You left the vîgil! The Spîrit of Dēath came to check, found no mõurner, and took the sôul for real!”
“Fîx it!” I scréámed. “Please, I have money!”
“There is nothing to fîx,” the line went déád.
Now, I am sitting here alone in this massive house. My husband is lyîng in a cãsket in the center of the párlor. He is trüly g0ne.
The wõrst part?
His phone just béèped beside me.
Credit: N500,000,000.00.
Narration: Settlement for 2025 Contracts.
The money has come, but the owner is deâd.
If I call the police, how do I explain why my husband is dréssed for bürial in our living room? They will say I used him for rîtuâls. If I call his family, they will k!II me.
I am looking at the shõvel in the gárden shed.
Should I büry him in the backyárd and prëtend he trâveled ábroad? Or should I turn myself in?
I am cõnfused. I am shäking. Someone please tell me what to do before morning breaks. #highlights #everyone #follower
The first time Chief brought the cásket into our living room in Banana Island,
I faînted.
I thought he was prânking me, or maybe he had joined one of those strânge cülts my mother always wârned me about. But Kolawole was calm. He sat me down on our Italian leather sofa, held my hands, and explained.
“Babe, it is just a rénewal,” he said, his voice smòòth like velvet. “Every year, I must ‘d!e’ so that our wèàlth can live. You will cry for me, mõurn me from 6:00 PM on the 10th to 6:00 PM on the 11th. Once the time is up,
I wake up, and the contracts for the next year are sealed.”
I wanted to run. I wanted to pack my bags and flee to my parents' house in Epe. But then, the âlart entered my phone.
Credit: N5,000,000.00.
“For your strëss,” he smîled.
Money has a way of sîlencing your cõnscience, especially in this Lagos. So, I ágreed.
For four years, we did the rõutine. Every December 10th, the drîver, Sunday, would bring in a shîny, white màhogany casket. Kola would bathe in black soap, wear a white lace agbada, and clímb inside. I would sit on the fl00r, wearing black, and I would waîl.
I crîed until my eyes were swõllen. I scréámed his name. I acted like the grîeving wîdow. And exactly at 6:00 PM the next day, Kola would sit up, snèèze three times, and step out looking younger and fresher.
But yesterday was different.
The rîtual started as usual. Kola entered the casket at 6:00 PM. I started my crying. The house was sîlent, except for the hum of the central AC and my fáke sõbbing.
Around 3:00 AM, I got tîred. I went to the kitchen to drink water. When I came back, the atmosphere in the living room had changed. It was heavy. The air smèlled like… rõtten méát.
I walked to the open casket to check on him. Kola was there, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest. But his skin looked grey. Too grey.
I touched his hand. It was îce cold.
“Kola?” I whîspered. “Nna, stop playing now. It’s scâry.”
He didn't move.
I checked his chest. It wasn't rîsing. I put my ear to his mouth. No brèàth.
Féàr grîpped my thrõat. I shõok him vîolently. “Kola! Kola wáke up!”
Nothing.
I checked the time. It was only 4:00 AM. He still had 14 hours to go. I told myself it was part of the dèèp tránce. Maybe this year the rîtual was strõnger.
I sat there, shàking, watching the clock tick. Tick. Tick.
6:00 PM came today.
I stood up, wîping my face, waiting for the sneeze.
I waited for him to sît up and ask for his Maltina like he always
6:05 PM. Sílence.
6:30 PM. Nothing.
7:00 PM.
I started scréáming for real this time. I shoôk him, I slápped his face, I põured water on him. My husband is stîff. He is stõne cold.
I called the number of the "Baba" he usually visits in Bâdagry, the number he told me to call only in an émergency.
The man picked up on the first rîng.
“Madam,” the voice cròaked, soünding like grînding stones. “Did you stop crying? Did you leave his side?”
“I… I went to drink water,” I stámmered.
“Ha!” The man scréámed. “You bròke the círcle! You left the vîgil! The Spîrit of Dēath came to check, found no mõurner, and took the sôul for real!”
“Fîx it!” I scréámed. “Please, I have money!”
“There is nothing to fîx,” the line went déád.
Now, I am sitting here alone in this massive house. My husband is lyîng in a cãsket in the center of the párlor. He is trüly g0ne.
The wõrst part?
His phone just béèped beside me.
Credit: N500,000,000.00.
Narration: Settlement for 2025 Contracts.
The money has come, but the owner is deâd.
If I call the police, how do I explain why my husband is dréssed for bürial in our living room? They will say I used him for rîtuâls. If I call his family, they will k!II me.
I am looking at the shõvel in the gárden shed.
Should I büry him in the backyárd and prëtend he trâveled ábroad? Or should I turn myself in?
I am cõnfused. I am shäking. Someone please tell me what to do before morning breaks. #highlights #everyone #follower
