07/09/2025
They said my husband d!ed in an acc!dent, but his ATM card w!thdrew f!ve m!llion the next morning.
If anybody had told me that Chinedu would d!e before daybreak, I would have slãpped the person for saying nonsense. The man left this house on Friday evening, ironed shirt, fresh haircut, even promised to bring me suya on his way back. By midnight, it was police that knocked on my door.
I still remember the way the torchlight scattered my eyes when I opened the door. Two policemen, one wearing bathroom slippers, the other holding a small brown envelope. “Madam, are you Mrs. Ngozi Okafor?” I nodded, and they dropped the bombshell like they were reading meter number. “There was a fatal accident along Umuahia express. A Toyota Camry caught fire. We found your husband’s phone and ID card in the car. We are sorry, ma.”
My legs did not just shake; they disappeared. Neighbors said I fell like somebody pushed me from upstairs. One minute I was standing, next thing my wrapper was on the floor and Mama Peace from next flat was fanning me with a newspaper. Within ten minutes the whole compound was awake. Some came to hold me, others came to confirm if it was true, but the one that pained me was Obinna, his younger brother, that was already asking, “So, how do we go about the burial? Should we move the body to the village or leave it in town?”
People were still talking when they brought the report the next morning: the body was burnt beyond recognition, but the car, the documents, and his phone were inside. They said they would release the co**se after police clearance. My head was hot, my hands were shaking, but what could I say? Which mouth will argue with police and charred remains?
By afternoon, the story had spread past our street. Church members were calling, his shop boys were crying, and the women selling akara opposite the junction were already whispering how Chinedu withdrew five million just last week. “Where is the money?” one of them asked. I wanted to scream at her, but my mouth was bitter like paracetamol.
They brought the coffin by evening for the wake-keep. White paint, cheap wood, smelling of new polish. I sat in the corner, wrapper tied carelessly, watching them carry it into the sitting room like one carries a bag of rice. People came with lanterns and plastic chairs. Some were crying, some were calculating. I kept staring at that box and asking myself: is my husband really inside this thing, or did they bury somebody else’s father and bring me receipt?
To be continued on 👇
THE MAN WHO ATTENDED HIS OWN FUNERAL —EPISODE 2
If the c0mmēnts and shãrēs gets to 5OO this night, I'd drop chapter 2.
Written by Calista Official