Chapter 3: Graveyard Reunion and Old Scars

As I open eye, na hoe I see dey come my forehead straight. I quick dodge, roll for ground like correct village girl wey dey run from masquerade. Na so wahala nearly finish spirit o.

“Chei!” I dodge sharp sharp. My heart beat like drum for new yam festival. Even as spirit, fear fit catch pesin well.

As I stand up, Chisom just dey look me steady, only small space dey between us. E eyes dey sharp. The silence heavy like harmattan morning. My leg dey tremble small.

Three years, na today I dey see am this close. Every memory—love, quarrel, laughter—rush me like water wey break dam. My mind dey scatter.

Moonlight show say im eye get big black circle, face still fine but don lean. Na wahala don slim am. No be the same Chisom wey fit finish two plates of amala that year. The love pain dey show for im skin.

But those eyes—sharp like eagle own. E dey look me like say I be last piece of suya for tray.

I shift back small. “Chi... Chisom.” My voice tiny. For the first time, I dey fear my own mouth. Old wound dey open.

E fling hoe, waka come hold my wrist. The hoe land for ground, sound carry echo. E hand cold, like person wey just wash cloth for early morning.

Im hand cold like well water, but real pass wetin I expect. E grip strong, as if e dey beg me with bone and blood.

“Run na. Why you no dey run again?” Chisom voice rough, e no sound like before.

Im voice crack, deep, like say e swallow stone. I see frustration dey drag im words.

E grit teeth. “You get mind dey curse me for dream, abi?”

I feel am for my body. That curse ehn, na only pain dey inside, not true wahala.

I yank my hand, vex catch me too. I refuse to gree. My stubbornness get back up for this one.

“Who be the real victim? Na just small curse I curse you—na why you dey dig my grave everyday?”

I dey para now. E pain me say na me dey explain.

“Because of you, three years now, I never cross over...” My voice tremble. As I talk am, I dey feel the weight for my chest. E be like old yam dey press my spirit.

E just dey look me, eyes red like say e wan cry. For Chisom to show tears, na war. That eye fit melt old grudge. The stubborn for im face don break small.

Even im voice dey shake, something I never hear before. E voice low, pain dey hide under. Na something deep, like say river dey run under sand.

“Ngozi.” E call my name with pain. That name, from e mouth, carry prayer and curse together. My leg weak.

“You wicked o.”

If na joke, e for laugh. But na pain full im eyes. My own heart shake. To cross over mean say I wicked?

I dey reason am. For Naija, crossing over mean pesin dey move on, but for love matter, e fit mean betrayal.

E turn face, no gree make I see im tears. Im pride no gree. Even pikin wey dey cry for mama back go hide face. E rub im nose like person wey dey catch cold.

“You just waka go cross over. Wetin make you leave me for here?”

E pain am. E mean am, no cap. Even my spirit sef dey feel am.

I shock. I stiff. The words hit me. Na so love dey turn wahala.

The spiritual elders for back dey look each other. One old man talk: “Mr. Chisom...”

Dem dey whisper, as if na exam hall dem dey. The man voice thin, like person wey dey beg for transport.

Chisom no even look back: “I don send una chop money. Make una dey go.”

E hands steady, no shake. As e talk, the air cold more. Dem disappear quick quick.

If you see speed, you go know say money get power—even for spirit realm.

Na only two of us remain for graveyard. Everywhere quiet, only sound na night insect and Chisom slow breath.

Night breeze blow, ashes from candle and offering just dey fly everywhere. The air smell of palm oil, incense, and roasted meat. Candle wax drip for ground like river.

All the candle and food—na for me e dey burn every year since I die. Na true love or na obsession, I no fit say. But the evidence full ground.

By my tombstone, heap of paper money, and... my favourite meat pie from when I still dey alive. That meat pie na Ajoke special, the one wey dey Lekki. Chisom sabi my taste die.

For these three years, Chisom don burn money tire for me, my ancestors’ land life soft die—even Baba Aro dey respect me.

Baba Aro dey chop my leftover meat pie, e no dey complain. Other spirits dey wonder wetin be my secret.

Money na power, even for spirit world. The proverb true. Where money dey, respect dey follow—even for here.

As I think am, small emotion catch me. Tears dey eye, but spirit no dey cry. My heart dey squeeze.

“Chisom...” I call im name low. The memory sweet and bitter together.

Before I fit finish, e just carry me enter im arms. Im hug no get end. E hold me as if say if e loose, I go turn to wind.

Me: “Where we dey go?” I try resist, but e body dey warm. For spirit, na miracle.

Am: “House.” The way e talk am, na final bus stop be that. No argument.

I wan talk say, “My house na here o,” but as I see im eye, I just lock up. I swallow words. But for my mind, seven days no go reach, wahala go burst.