GHOST By Soji Cole

I do not know that when I die I will come back again. I had always thought that death is an enduring finality until I died myself. Sincerely I never feel like I am dead, even at that time when I rose from the mound of earth in which my body was buried, I felt I was just awoken from a deep slumber. So this is how it feels to be dead?

It is painful that no one can see me as I roam about the compound that has now turned into a mourning arena. I wonder why people are crying because I am dead. Yes, I died to fulfill a natural obligation, but here I am now, gallivanting in the midst of tears! I am particularly disturbed by my mother’s distraught condition. She is surrounded by six people who continually marshal her movements in a bid to prevent her from harming herself. I touch her and even try to lift her up to see me but she is insensitive to my touch. I want to tell her to stop crying because death is a good thing. Nobody can hear my voice, feel my touch or see me; maybe that is the only bad thing about death because nobody can feel what you feel. My mother will jump up suddenly and threaten to kill herself. I always feel elated at this intermittent restlessness of hers because if she dies she will come to me and people will not see the two of us. Then, she will be my mother again. I feel like going to hit those preventing her from killing herself.

Somebody mentioned that I died yesterday. Nobody has mentioned how.

I moved round the compound. I can see my father talking in hushed tones with his friends. He will not cry. Often he had told me before I died that men don’t cry in public, especially when women are about. I moved close to him and saw the tears streaming down freely from his eyes. He had lied to me while I was alive. He told me nothing will ever make him cry and so I must train myself like him. I detest him now for crying and, much more for seeing through his lie. I moved to where my brothers and my little sisters are clustered, crying profusely. This crying business is certainly becoming comical to me. I wish everyone were dead so that they can see the luxury in death.

I moved to the water barrel at the back of the house. I will attract attention now if I scoop up water from the barrel and throw them around. I took the bowl lying helplessly vacant on the ground and scoop up a generous volume. I threw it all about, waiting for the expected chain of reactions that will erupt from the people. No one seems to flinch even as the water rained down on them. I took another bowlful and splashed them torrentially about. Nothing. I took another and another and another until I got drenched myself.

At last, my mother was able to see me. She rushed to me and grabbed my hand to stop throwing the water away. I did not stop because I was already enjoying myself. I had got very soaked by now while mother shook me vigorously. I woke up to find mother starring disappointingly at me while I in turn stared at the wet pool of urine which has formed an intricate maze sliding away from under my mat.