The Graveyard

Budu Town was the kind of place where strange things happened so regularly that people got tired of being surprised. A chicken that meowed? Normal. A barber that gave prophecy with every haircut? Expected. A pastor who slept through thunderstorms but woke up instantly when someone opened a pot of soup? Completely ordinary. But none of these came close to the real heart of Budu Town’s madness: the graveyard. It sat at the western edge of town, surrounded by an iron fence older than anybody alive—or dead. The sign at the front read: “BUDU COMMUNITY GRAVEYARD — PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB THE RESIDENTS.” Most people assumed the sign was just humor. They were wrong. The graveyard was very much alive… not in the “zombies climb out and chase you” kind of way—no, that was too primitive. Budu’s dead were sophisticated. They preferred gossip, night meetings, subtle sarcasm, and complaining loudly whenever someone stepped on their graves. And the person who had to deal with all this? Chike Anozie — graveyard cleaner, accidental ambassador to the dead, and professional struggler. At twenty-six, Chike had two dreams: 1. To one day be rich enough to buy a generator that wouldn't embarrass him in front of guests. 2. To fall in love with a girl who didn’t think sweeping a graveyard meant he was cursed. Unfortunately, both dreams were still under construction. Every morning, he went to work with his stubborn broom, humming songs off-key as he swept leaves from the crooked pathways. Today, the sky glowed orange, and the morning breeze smelled like roasted maize from Mama Nkechi’s roadside stall. “Good morning, everybody,” Chike greeted the tombstones—because in Budu Town, it was best to be polite to dead people. “I hope all of you slept well—oh wait, never mind.” He laughed at his own joke. His broom paused suddenly. Something shiny was sticking out from the base of a tombstone. At first he thought it was a bottle cap or a stray offering from last night’s mourners. But when he bent down and pulled it free, he froze. It was an envelope. Cream-colored. Neatly folded. Sealed with wax. He blinked. “No… no, no, no. You people have started again.” Chike looked around. The tombstones were suspiciously still—except one that seemed to be leaning a little farther forward than yesterday, as though trying to peep. Chike sighed and opened the letter. Inside, in neat cursive handwriting, were the words: > Dear Management, I wish to formally complain about the noise above my resting place. The living boy who passes here every night keeps singing heartbreak songs. It is emotionally disturbing. Kindly relocate him or confiscate his voice. — Signed, Madam Felicia (Block C, Grave 12) Chike’s mouth fell open. “Madam Felicia, please! I’m just trying to practice my music career!” The wind blew, sounding a lot like laughter. “Oh, you people think this is funny abi?” Chike grumbled. He marched toward the gate—but before he reached it, the ground trembled very lightly, almost like someone knocking… from below. He turned slowly. One tombstone wiggled. Then another. Then three in a row, shaking lightly like gossiping aunties. Chike dropped his broom. “No, no, no! Please, don’t start morning drama today! Ahh! I’ve not even eaten sef!” The trembling stopped abruptly. Silence fell. Then a deep, elderly voice echoed from a tombstone behind him: “Young man, we need to talk.” Chike screamed so loudly a flock of birds flew out of the trees. --- THE VOICE CONTINUES… “Don’t shout. Do you want to wake everybody?” “YOU ARE EVERYBODY!” Chike shouted back. Another voice, this one snarky and feminine, chimed in: “Eh-eh, don’t raise your voice at us. We are senior citizens—dead or not.” “Chai… I need a new job,” Chike muttered. The tombstones chuckled. Then the first voice said: “We have complaints.” “I figured,” Chike replied, waving the letter. “You people are now writing formal petitions.” “Well, we are not animals,” someone snapped. Another added: “We want peace. And less noise. And fewer lovers sitting on us!” “And better sanitation!” another voice chimed in. “And—” “STOP!” Chike shouted. “One at a time!” The graveyard fell silent again. Then an elderly voice said calmly: “Young man, you are appointed to be our official mediator.” Chike looked to the heavens. “God… what kind of destiny is this?” --- THE REAL TROUBLE BEGINS As if on cue, shouting erupted from outside. Mama Nkechi’s voice blasted through the gate like a trumpet: “CHIKÉÉÉÉ! I HEARD YOU SCREAM! HAVE THE DEAD FINALLY CAPTURED YOU?!” “Oh Lord,” Chike whispered. She barged in, wrapper tied dramatically, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon. When she saw Chike pale-faced and surrounded by “innocent-looking” tombstones, her eyes bulged. “Ha! I knew it! The dead have unionized! Everybody repent!!!” From somewhere in the back row of graves, a voice muttered: “Can someone shut that woman up?” Chike raised his hands. “Please, please, everybody calm—” Too late. Mama Nkechi fainted. The tombstones groaned. The birds fled. And thus began the chaos that would transform Budu Town forever… and bring Chike face-to-face with the girl who would change his life. A girl who would walk into the graveyard the very next morning, unaware that she was about to fall in love with the most exhausted man in Africa. Her name was Adaora. And destiny—in the most dramatic, hilarious, and supernatural way possible—had just begun