Chapter 1: When Papa Sat Up

Just after I arrange Papa for burial, he sit up like person wey miss last bus. My blood freeze on the spot, air thick pass ogbono soup—every lizard for rafter hold breath. I just stand, heart dey pound like agidigbo drum.

He wave hand up and down, look around, then shout, “Ewo! So na spirit I be now?”

Him eyes big like fresh plantain leaf for rainy season, voice bounce round the mud wall. I sure say even backyard spirits hear am.

I quietly shift back…

My slippers dey whisper for packed earth. I no even breathe hard, dey reason how this wahala fit land for my head.

At first, I notice wild spirit papa no dey farm, just dey idle round all day.

He go sidon for veranda, dey watch fly chase im own shadow. Sometimes he whistle off-key song. People dey pass, dey use corner eye, dey whisper say trouble don land my family.

I think for my mind: [No wahala, make hunger join us together.]

For this village, na hunger dey bond people pass. If e reach two of us, so be it. At least nobody go say I no try for my papa—even if e no be am again.

Later, he dey waka up and down, dey find food, dey chop free.

He waka from one neighbour house to the next, dey hail everybody, dey collect small small food. One day pounded yam for Mama Nkechi, next day okro soup from Baba Lawal. E turn village parambulator.

I reason: [If I fit beat sense enter this spirit now, e for better.]

I dey calculate—maybe if I drag am go farm with cane, e go get small home training. But who born me? Na spirit.

I no even believe say I go ever dey pray make my papa turn masquerade.

E shock me reach bone. I just dey look, dey wonder if na so others dey experience this kind wahala. I even dey think say if masquerade catch am, maybe e go rest small.

Papa come back to life.

Na real wahala. This compound never see this kain drama since ogboni crisis. People still dey ask, "Na your papa be that?" I just dey form say na village medicine work, make dem no run go call chief priest.

As he lie down for bed, he ask, “My pikin, wetin we go chop this night?”

Him voice rough like angry spirit for darkness, deep like harmattan thunder.

I dey look am with fear, I no fit answer. My hands dey tremble as I dey hold small basin, eyes dey search back door in case wahala burst.

Papa don die, e no dey breathe again.

I remember as I close him eye, cover am with white cloth, shed small tears, pray say God go accept am.

Before he die, he tell me make I go city find my sister wey dey do housegirl work. Na the last thing I hear from am. I fit still hear the weakness for him voice.

No need think am—na wild spirit dey use him body come back.

Spirit wey no belong, na im dey talk through Papa mouth. For village, dem talk say if you answer such spirit, e fit collect your tongue join.

If I answer am, e fit swallow me whole.

E fit be like those stories old women dey tell for moonlight—spirit go carry pikin enter bush, nobody go see am again.

So that night, belle dey make noise, dey disturb everywhere.

Hunger dey knock as if e wan scatter ribs. I just dey hug myself for mat, dey beg God make morning quick come.