Chapter 1: The Grave Where Hope Dey Sleep

Before I reincarnate, one small girl dey come my grave. She go stand for my grave, dey call my name, dey shout say na here her mama dey sleep, and every few days she dey bring food come.

Sometimes, as I watch her small hands gently arrange the offering, my chest dey twist like when pepper enter eye—spirit pain wey no get medicine. She go press garri inside small nylon, arrange soup for old ice cream container, then set everything with careful hand like person dey serve king. Even as wind dey blow her wrapper, she go still kneel, whispering words like she dey yarn to person wey fit answer.

I no fit show myself to tell her, "Na my grave be this o, your mama no dey here."

How I for take show face to am? Even for night, when moon dey bright, I dey shift for shadow, my hand dey shake. If I show, she fit run mad, but if I no show, her pain go long. The way she dey hold onto hope strong like say na thread tie her to this world, e dey pain me. Sometimes, my spirit dey hover, wan reach her, but I hold back—who wan scare small pikin wey don suffer?

After she cry well well, she come dey show face even more, beg me make I help her find her mama.

E be like say her tears dey give her power, because after every cry, she go come back with new strength. She go kneel, press forehead for ground, beg like say na human she dey talk to. She go say, "Mama, I bring food come, abeg protect me for night. If you dey hear me, make dream reach me." For her voice, you go hear her belle dey bite her like mosquito wey no wan die and stubborn hope blend together.

When I finally get news about her mama, the small girl collapse for my front, blood full her body.

That day, as harmattan breeze blow dust enter her eye, but she no blink. Blood dey soak her skirt, her skin cold like early morning cement. Her hand dey cold. The world just quiet as if ancestors dey listen.

She talk say, "If I die, I go fit see my mama?"

Her eye big like well for dry season—hope deep, but water no dey. That kind question fit melt even stubborn spirit. The way her voice tremble, e carry weight wey even grown woman no fit bear. For that moment, I feel say the world unfair pass anything.

I no fit bear am again, I just tell her the truth: "After your mama die, dem grind her bones to dust, her soul dey locked for one shrine, she no go ever reincarnate. Even if you die, you no go see her."

My own voice crack, the truth bitter for my mouth. Na the kind pain wey make spirit wan scatter stone. For my mind, I dey beg the gods make dem change story, but the truth na heavy load for ground.

She stretch hand for air, hold my own, beg me with all her heart, "My mama na big general wey protect this land; she no suppose end like this. You get power, you fit show for daytime—abeg, help me save her..."

Her palm cold, but the strength for her grip strong. Tears dey flow from her face, mix with dust. Her prayer na like those wey old women dey pray for midnight vigil—na true heart, no hiding. If hope dey buy power, e for reach heavens that day.

As I hear her beg, I answer, "No wahala."

As I talk am, small breeze pass. The air shift, like say ancestors dey bear witness. Even the trees near the grave quiet, as if dem dey listen to our agreement.

As she hear am, the small girl just die. I call Baba Ojo, tell am, "I don decide. I no go find better family again. Make I reincarnate for this body."

As I talk am, thunder rumble for distance—sign say ancestors dey bear witness.

Her spirit leave gently, no struggle. For that moment, everywhere cold. As I whisper to Baba Ojo, my voice strong. Decision wey I don avoid since, now e clear for my mind. Baba Ojo voice crack for response—he know say time don reach.