Growing up in our clime, we heard of mysterious stories that were extremely difficult to stomach. Stories that defiled logic and human comprehension.
The stories were always hearsay or gleaned from the grapevines. The narrators were hardly the eyewitnesses. We call them, “I heard and I was told stories.”
A week ago, my neighbour whose husband died ten years ago came back, looking forlorn and ashen. Dejection was written all over her. Two days she was indoor still trying to solve the puzzle.
Yesterday’s morning, she came out, and I was forced to ask her, where she has been for the past few weeks. She mumbled something I couldn’t understand.
Later in the evening, she came to me and asked, whether I believe in life after death. I told her, No.
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She sealed a deal with me, which was, I shouldn’t disclose what she’s about to tell me. I promised not to let the cat out of the bag.
She told me she left Abuja to Aba only to see her husband by the roadside selling plain clothes. When the man was alive in Abuja that was the business he was doing.
She continued, coughing and wiping her tears away.
That she didn’t call him or draw his attention. She started asking people around who he was. It was revealed to her that the husband who died ten years ago has been living in Aba. The thing that marveled her was that her husband has married with three kids.
When the dead husband closed selling for the day. She followed him until he got to his abode. She watched him enter his house.
She was moved to knock on the door. She later did.
The man opened the door and it was her husband, but, on trying to touch him, the man vanished.
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