15/12/2025
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.
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