Chapter Six: Something Was Taken
745 Words
The wind had a strange voice that morning.
It hissed between the cracks in the funeral home’s wooden windows, carrying the scent of dust and rain.
Ade stood by the front desk, unmoving, as the incense stick burned low beside a plate of kola nut someone had left during a late-night vigil two days before.
He hadn’t heard from Efe.
Not in two days.
Not since he sent her that text — short, careful, not too pushy:
“You good?”
No reply.
He didn’t expect paragraphs, but the silence pressed something inside his chest.
Something he didn’t have a name for.
She had shown up every day before that.
With chin chin.
With silence.
With sad jokes and sadder eyes.
And now… nothing.
Maybe she changed her mind, he thought.
Or maybe the days ran out.
A part of him — the part that had learned not to ask too much from life — tried to let it go.
People left. That’s what they did.
But something small and quiet in him whispered,
Not her. Not yet.
The bell over the door rang.
Not her.
A woman stepped in, shoulders trembling even though the weather wasn’t cold. She wore a wrapper tied too tightly around her chest, and her hair was messy, like she’d come in a hurry or hadn’t looked in a mirror in days.
“Aunty, good morning,” Ade said, adjusting his tone. Gentle. Neutral. Respectful.
She clutched her handbag like it was a shield.
“Are you the mortician?”
“I am. Please, have a seat.”
She didn’t sit. Her eyes were wide, alert, like something might jump out from one of the polished coffins.
“They said you’re discreet. That you don’t ask stupid questions.”
“I try not to,” Ade replied, watching her closely.
“My son…” she paused, her voice cracking. “He was only ten.”
Ade’s heart sank a little. Children were harder. Always harder.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She nodded but didn’t seem to hear him.
“He was fine in the morning. Played outside. Ate rice. Then by night—” Her voice broke. “He started shouting. Saying someone was pressing his chest. He couldn’t breathe. And then
She made a sharp, final gesture with her hands.
“Have you spoken to a doctor?” Ade asked carefully.
“Doctor?” she scoffed. “Which doctor will explain how a healthy child dies like that? My mother said it’s spiritual. She said something was sent.”
He stayed silent. He’d heard things like this before — enough times to know when not to argue.
Grief needed space. Not correction
She pulled out a cloth bundle from her handbag, unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a picture. A boy. Bright eyes. Smiling with missing front teeth.
“I want him to look peaceful,” she said, placing the photo on the table like it was fragile. “Like he’s sleeping. Like nothing chased him.”
“I can do that,” Ade said softly.
Her eyes filled, but she nodded quickly.
“Thank you. I’ll pay whatever.”
“It’s not about money.”
The woman finally sat down, but only on the edge of the chair.
“I didn’t even shout at him that day,” she whispered. “I made jollof rice. I even put extra meat.”
Ade swallowed. He had nothing to say that would make it make sense.
Later, after she left and he prepared the embalming room, he stood for a moment at the edge of the cold metal table.
The boy’s body was there. Small. Still.
Ade exhaled slowly and pulled on his gloves.
He worked in silence. Gentle. Steady. Focused.
Every child reminded him of something or someone he hadn’t saved.
When he was done, he took a step back and looked at the boy’s face.
Calm now. Like a dream before the nightmare.
He turned off the lights, but the grief stayed.
He walked into his office, the silence heavier than before.
His phone buzzed.
His breath caught — just a little.
Not Efe.
A delivery message from a supplier.
He dropped the phone and leaned forward on the desk, resting his forehead on his folded arms.
If this was a test — these thirty days — he wasn’t sure who was failing.
Him or her.
She hadn’t said goodbye.
And that scared him more than anything.
- Writer
