THE GHOST IN AFRICA

ELIAS

I used to think the ghosts haunt the house, I guess you still do. You’ve read stories about haunted houses, you’ve watched ghost-themed movies, and you’ve even played a couple of death-themed games to the delight of your adrenaline rush. You might even live in a haunted house yourself or so you claim. But you’ve never, ever been farther from the truth about us.

Pardon my manners. I should introduce myself properly. My name is Elias Dum and I am dead. Yes, I am. I am the only child born to Nigerian professors Jonathan Dum and Loveth Dum. I guess that should answer why I am so smart compared to my peers. What it doesn’t answer however is why I am dead, but I am getting ahead of myself already.

I still remember the day I died like it was yesterday, although it’s quite blurry in my head. Oh wait, maybe it was yesterday I died. I’ve been floating about this very room for the past twenty-four hours, unable to leave, and a little unsure if I’m indeed dead, or if this was some long allergy-induced hallucination. If indeed I was, where in the heavens was my body? Wherever it was, I had no idea at the moment. All I knew was that I had this very dead-ey panic with no one to vent to.

I had tried leaving this room a couple of times already, but each time I get close to that door, the strangeness that lurks around gets even stronger so I end up giving up and returning to this bed. I float above this bed, trying to shut out the strange whisperings I keep hearing now and then. When I do try to focus and listen, I cannot hear anything that’s being said. Are there ghosts even to ghosts or is this house just different?

There is something in this house, there always has been. I had told mummy of the sobbing I hear whenever I sleep – slept, whatever - close to the wall in my room, but she said I was watching too many cartoons and had an over-active imagination, but I knew she was wrong. It was more than the sobbing.

At times I’d hear multiple voices and hundreds of clocks, ticking and talking all at once. At other times, the house would smell funny, not the putrid stench of decaying matter or the unpleasant odor of unwashed clothing, just a rather odd smell I couldn’t place. And all along, neither Mummy nor Daddy perceived it too.

But you see, here in Nigeria, you don’t go talking about the spooky night stuff, else you get tagged mummy’s baby asked to come to sleep in Mummy’s room. Worst case scenario, you’re before a panel consisting of your parents, an exorcist-pastor, and some prayer warrior answering the question “Who gave you the ‘puff-puff?’. In Nigeria, that translated to, “We know you’ve been initiated to witchcraft, just tell us who did”, and I wasn’t ready for any of that.

Floating just above my child-sized bed still dressed in my blue pajamas, I looked nervously around my room. It was as simple as any child’s room could be. One bed, fancy lights, and chairs I never really used. I almost chuckled, what’s furniture to a ghost? I floated slowly towards the door, cautiously watching the door as I approached.

Barely a foot away from the door, I started hearing the faint tapping sound again, like water dripping in a sink. That’s how it always starts. I floated forward still, as silent as only a ghost could be. I was inches away from the door now, ready to dart right through it, or away from it if need be.

The door suddenly shook violently, like someone was trying to force it open from the other side, someone very strong. I paused and tried in vain to swallow, my eyes never for once leaving the door. Whatever lay behind that door is something more than I could comprehend. The door shook again, this time, a lot harder than it had the first time.

I floated forward towards the door, slower than I had the first time, steeling my nerves not to bolt. Whatever it was that shook the door, it seemed to know I was approaching. Why else would it amplify its energy when I got closer?

As I edged closer, I heard whispering. I was down to my last ounce of confidence now. I listened, peering at the door as though I could somehow see what lay behind it. The voice was getting clearer now, it was a feminine voice, and it wasn’t just a whisper. She - it, was humming, barely above a whisper, a steady dull tune as depressing as a barn own singing on a dark stormy might. Her voice was clear, yet I couldn’t make out a word of what she sang about.

An eerie chill suddenly enveloped me. I heard footsteps behind me and…

“Who’s there?” I turned around sharply.

In mock response the door shook again. The footsteps were tapping behind me as much as I turned, yet I saw nobody. Are there ghosts even to ghosts? I was petrified. I darted towards my position atop the bed. But I didn’t get there. The lights flickered and went out. I remained transfixed to the spot where I was.

I was about chiding myself for being a ghost scared of the dark when the humming transformed into a depressing wail that dissolved any ounce of confidence I had left. I tried shutting my ears with my hands, but my hands fell right through my head. The tapping had not abated even for a bit. The door shook as though it would shatter any moment now. I reeked of fear, my eyes shut, praying to snap out of this nightmare. God hears the prayers of a ghost right? The tapping of running feet sounded closer to me now. In this dark room, I felt like I would die all over again from fear.

Then as suddenly as everything had begun, it ceased, except the ticking of the clock in the darkness. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel the lights come back on through my very skin, err essence.

“Get out of my room!”

I turned and froze.

Beside the bed was a girl about my size, a bit scrawnier anyway, in a floral gown that looked a size bigger than hers, with large unblinking black eyes that accented her witchy-wide lips. Her hair was unmade and packed in a tidy bundle behind her. Her scrawny hands were akimbo and her feet were… Christ! She had no feet!

“What are you doing here?" Her shrill voice thundered with every syllable.

I remained where I was, staring at this strange girl in front of me. I wondered if she had been humming that depressing tune earlier. I was still watching her, openmouthed. Her skin was so pale like it was about to rot. I was so drenched in fear that I started shrinking. Then something even stranger happened. The scrawny little girl started growing bigger. I felt so much fear I could taste the temperature drop.

“Get out of MY room!". She thundered again and I could swear I heard something explode in a distance. The smell of burning flesh – or was it burning rubber, filled my entire room.

‘Your room’ I thought. “This room is...” I began saying then paused. The next word on my lips was ‘mine’, but one of the few surviving cells in my mind warned me of the deathly nature of that move. Instead, I blurted,

“I just died!"

Fear had fried my ghost nerves. If ghosts fainted, I would have found out by now. Right now, I was dumb for sure.

“Aboki free the guy joor" I heard in unmistakable Nigerian pidgin. Aboki, to the Hausa tribe of Northern Nigeria, translated to ‘my friend’. But then, to the Southerners, it was a way of calling someone a simpleton. Immediately the second voice spoke, the scary ‘aboki’ shrank to a normal-sized girl ghost, laughing uncontrollably. She then clapped her hands.

“You can come out now” She was falling over herself in delight. Immediately, about a dozen other children, all about my age emerged from the wardrobe.

“This never grows old does it?” She looked at me as she spoke so I assumed she was talking to me. My response was a half nod, not knowing what would follow her outburst.

The other children that had appeared, all one…two…three…four… wait… seven of them did not share the same energetic aura about them as the female ghost that was bent double with laughs. Her joke had grown stale to them, as they all paid no attention to her, every one of them sizing me up. I floated a few inches backward, somewhat intimidated by their stares, my eyes darting from one face to another.

The first person that had come out looked the meanest. He was plump and dark-complexioned, with his eyes too deep-set for a child. That sort of weirdo's eyes you get from doing lots of bad things over and over again. From his outfit, an upandan - a Nigerian native long-sleeved top, with the trouser sewn from the same African print fabric, I could tell he was from the northern region of the country. He floated a little away from the others.

My eyes darted sharply to the left. Huddled together in a corner were three undersized boys who looked closer to five than nine-years-old. If these were indeed nine-year-olds, then they must have been thoroughly underfed. They were all identical, dressed in the same blue shirt and black shorts. It was obvious that they were more terrified of me than I was of them, as they stared at me like I was some strange creature.

My eyes still darted back and forth at the black northern boy, who was now floating at the far end of the room, way from the rest of us. He stared at me with a frown that screamed ‘What are you doing here?’

I spied four other girls whispering at the other end of the wardrobe. They didn’t bother to mask the fact that they were talking about me as regular gossips gossip would.

“Hi, I'm Adaeze, 1956", the scrawny girl said, offering her hand for a handshake. I glanced warily at her hand and then back at her face, appraising the smile that she wore. What did she mean by 1956? That’s got to be the strangest surname I’ve ever heard, even for a Nigerian.

“Huh?" I managed, still not returning her handshake.

“What?” she still hands lost her smile or dropped her hand.

“1956?” I said, still trying to sound as polite as I could.

“Oh that” She chuckled, “that's when I died”.

1956! I tried not to seem shocked.

“It’s okay if you’re surprised” she had caught me. “It took Samuel here nearly a year to finally come to terms with it” she motioned at a rather funny-looking fat boy just beside that gossiping gang of four. He, like me, was still dressed in his superman themed pajamas, complete with the pant atop his trousers.

“Okay, I am Elias" I managed, reaching out to shake her still outstretched hand. "Yesterday, I guess"

"Good,” She said. As our hands connected, she suddenly phased, and my hand passed right through hers. Somehow, she he found this very hilarious and uncorked a fresh jar of laughter, alone again. The last time I felt this embarrassed was when I had peed on myself while sleeping in class. But then, that was way back in primary school and everyone had sympathized with me. This was totally out of context.

“Did you see the look on his face?” she was saying, pointing at me as she cackled on. They most certainly did, I felt like saying, seeing that their eyes had never left my face even for a second since they had shown up. As suddenly as she had begun laughing, she stopped and floated towards me. Stopping right in front of me, she grabbed the front of my pajamas, pulling me to herself.

“Now, you’re going to help us figure out what has been killing thirteen-year-olds in this house for sixty-four years now."