Welcome to this maiden edition of Nuzo’s Nightmare Pit, and I hope you’ll enjoy the monthly short stories I’ll be sharing with you. Many of the stories you’ll read were narrated to me by the elders and friends in my village, while others are straight out of my dreams, the regular nightmares I have most nights which have influenced some of my stories—think of the story, Night-Flyer, in my book, The Reluctant Dead. Yes; the river scene was straight out of my nightmare!

I might tell these stories in the all-omniscient voice, just as they were told to me, or there might be the POV in the first, second or third person voices. I’m not really bothered about the itsy-bitsy of conventional fiction, as long as I tell you a good story that entertains, thrills and chills. So, allow me to welcome you to the fictional village of Ukari, a place most of my fans already recognise as the infamous capital of occult horror, supernatural terrors, and powerful witchdoctors and medicine women. Most of the stories I’ll share in this monthly entertainment zone, will be set in Ukari, and I’m sure you’ll soon become as familiar with the place as if you’ve actually visited—a dire fate I pray you never experience!

So, without much ado, let’s dig into our first story, one I’ve titled, Bad Meat. I first heard a diluted version of this story from my late uncle and till date, the moral of the story has stayed with me whenever I attend funeral wakes!

BAD MEAT

Ajibọ had no idea whose funeral wake she was attending with her fiancé, Mike. All she knew was that the dead person was the wife of Mike’s relative, who had died tragically in childbirth. The child had thankfully survived and was being cared for by relatives.

She had met Mike when she visited from the UK on holiday a year ago, and after countless letters and expensive telephone calls across the Atlantic, (those were the good old days before the internet, mobile phones, and zoom). Mike had finally proposed marriage and she had accepted. She was yet to complete her medical degree at the British university she attended, but Mike had suggested they do the traditional wedding ceremony first and then complete the church wedding when she graduated. She had arrived from the UK to their village for the traditional marriage less than a week ago, and this funeral wake was her first opportunity to meet most of Mike’s relatives in the flesh for the first time.

“Darling, do you think I’m dressed appropriately for the wake?” Ajibọ asked, adjusting the thin straps of her pink, silk dress, before brushing back her long gold-tinted hair extensions from her heavily made-up face. Mike gave her a sidelong look before reaching his arm over to hug her gently.

“You look gorgeous, Sweetie,’ he smiled. “Even if you wore a rag, you’ll still be the best-looking lady at the place.”

“Silly man,” Ajibọ shoved him playfully. “I wasn’t talking about my looks. I’m just not sure if I should be in traditional clothes. Just that I’ve got none, and all I came back with are my jeans and dresses, what with the heat and all.”

“Not to worry, Sweetie. We’re in the village after all, and they know you’ve just arrived from the UK. So, nobody expects you to be dressed in traditional wear. You’ll be just fine and everybody will love you to bits, just as I do,” Mike squeezed her hand gently as they walked along the dusty path leading to the compound of the bereaved family.

They soon arrived at the place, and Ajibọ was hugged and welcomed by several people whose names she promptly forgot. All she knew was that they were mostly Mike’s relatives and people from their village, some of whose faces she recognised even if she didn’t know their names. But they all knew her name, seeing as she was one of the few people in the village to have travelled outside the country. Normally, both she and Mike’s families lived in the big city of Enugu, but due to the traditional wedding event, they had both returned to the village for the ceremony. It was her plan to return to the UK once their traditional marriage was over, while Mike returned to his house in Enugu city, where he worked as the chairman of the local government.

The compound was heaving. Everywhere Ajibọ looked, people milled about, chatting, drinking, and even singing. It was supposed to be the wake of a young Woman who died in childbirth, yet the environment was almost festive. It was likely due to the presence of both the church choir and the village masquerade dancers who were competing with each other for the noise-award of the night. Several tents had been set up with tables and plastic chairs, and the compound was lit up with countless hanging bulbs strung along electric wires around the place. A generator hummed loudly in the background and the air was humid, smelling of Palmwine and human odour.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Sweetie, while I go and get us a drink of Palmwine. I know you’ll love it. It’s been a while since I had the real stuff. The diluted rubbish they sell in the city is an insult to Palmwine. I won’t be long. Try not to walk away with anyone while I’m gone, as we don’t know who’s a kidnapper seeking a prime target or even a ghost, seeking a human soul, ha!” Mike teased with a laugh as he walked off towards the main building, a story-building whose interior blazed with the bright lights of countless florescent bulbs.

Ajibọ settled into the nearest chair, and placed her handbag on the vacant chair next to her, securing it for Mike. She looked around her nervously, uncertain if to smile or frown. Some people in the compound wore long, solemn faces, while others went about their business with broad smiles. In the end, she adopted a neutral expression, neither a smile nor a frown, just the right look for someone who hoped not to offend.

“Is anyone sitting on this chair?” a voice asked. Ajibọ looked up and saw a young woman dressed in traditional flowing Bubu kaftan and a scarf, standing by Mike’s chair. Her head hung low, and she would not look Ajibọ in the eyes.

“Actually yes…I mean, my fiancé just went to get us a drink. But feel free to sit on it till he returns; please,” she quickly removed her handbag and waved the young woman into the chair with a smile. Her long nails gleamed brightly, while the emerald ring she wore on her engagement finger sparkled underneath the bright lights. She had no idea why she’d offered the chair, but there was a melancholy air surrounding the woman that raised her pity—likely a relative of the bereaved family, the thought. In that case, she might be even related to Mike, and Ajibọ wanted to get on with all her prospective in-laws as much as was possible.

The young woman sighed and sat on the chair. She said nothing to Ajibọ for several minutes, just sat with a distracted air, watching the mourners with her chin atop her folded hands. Finally, she heaved another deep sigh before turning to Ajibọ with an outstretched hand.

“Sister, I greet you,’ the woman said, her voice almost as deep as a man’s own. Everybody called everyone sister or brother in their village, since different clans were inevitably linked somehow, either through marriage or distant blood. Ajibọ shook the offered hand, and felt an involuntary shiver. The woman’s hand felt as icy as chilled meat inside a freezer.

Just as the thought entered her mind, a little child ran towards their direction waving his arms as if he were an aeroplane. He was a boy of about four or five years, and was dressed in shorts and a colourful t-shirt. He was about to run past them when he stopped suddenly before their chair, staring at them with goggled eyes.

Ajibọ smiled at him and leaned forward to speak to him. The presence of the child broke the heavy presence of the silent woman sat beside her.

“So, what’s your name, little one?” Ajibọ asked with a smile.

“Ukah,” the child said. He looked at her briefly before returning his gaze to the woman beside her. The child seemed particularly fascinated by her—if fascinated is the right word, more like dislike, even unease, Ajibọ thought. I wonder why?

“Ukah? That’s a nice name,” Ajibọ smiled. “Why don’t you say hello too to the auntie?” she nodded towards the woman, embarrassed on her behalf for the child’s intense stare which could be interpreted as rude in their strict culture.

“Uh-uh,” the boy shook his head, backing away from them. “Bad meat…it’s bad meat,”

“Huh?” Ajibọ gave him a perplexed frown. “What do you mean by bad meat, child?” she asked leaning further towards the child. But he just shook his head, turned and ran off towards the direction of the house. In no time he’d disappeared into the crowd and Ajibọ turned to look at her companion and apologise for the child’s rudeness.

The woman was staring intently at her, as if studying a strange insect. Her eyes were so black that Ajibọ couldn’t see the whites. A slight unease slivered over the back of her neck, like icy skeletal claws, but she shook it away—Perhaps the poor thing’s distraught with grief. She hopes the woman isn’t crazy or something. Where on earth is Mike, and why is he taking so long?

Ajibọ gave the woman a small smile and stood up—she’ll have to find Mike. Anything’s better than being beside this weird woman.

“Sister, please will you help me into the house?” the woman asked, offering her hand once again. “I am not feeling too well and need to go inside and rest,”

Aahh! That explains things! “Sure; certainly,” Ajibọ quickly took the offered hand, helping the woman to her feet. She felt guilty for her uncharitable thoughts—The poor woman is clearly a close relative to the bereaved family and burdened by the tragic loss of their relative.

As they started walking, the woman quickly linked her arm with Ajibọ’s own, leaning heavily against her. Once again, Ajibọ shivered, her body breaking out in sudden goosebumps. Just like her handshake, the woman’s bare arm felt like a lump of icy meat.

She took a surreptitious look from the side of her eyes, even as she frantically scanned the compound for a glimpse of Mike. The woman hung her head low, staring into the ground as they weaved their way towards the house. She wasn’t a big or obese woman, yet, Ajibọ felt her weight as if ten sacks of rice lay heavy on her shoulders. Initially, the woman’s steps were slow and laborious, and Ajibọ had to slow her own pace to accommodate her. She tried gently to disengage her arm from the woman’s cold arm, but she clung tightly to Ajibọ, leaning even closer and heavier.

Ajibọ didn’t know when exactly she started to feel tired. The feeling crept up on her before she became aware of it, and by the time she realised how weary she felt, her feet were already dragging on the ground, as if weighted with lead. Now, she was the one leaning heavy against the woman, while the woman’s feet walked briskly towards the house, hurrying her along with selfish impatience, as if she couldn’t wait to reach her destination. Yet, each time Ajibọ tried to withdraw her arm, the woman held tight to it.

“I’m sorry, but I’m a bit tired,” Ajibọ finally broke the restraint of the excessive British politeness she’d imbibed in her eight years of living and studying in the UK. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go sit down somewhere and rest. I’m sure you can make your own way into the house now.”

“Sister, don’t worry. I’ll take you inside with me so you can rest and drink something,” the woman said. Ajibọ looked at her sharply—is it her imagination or did the woman’s voice sound different, high-pitched without the former baritone? And why does her voice sound familiar somehow, like a voice she’s heard somewhere in the past?

Before she could work through her thoughts, they were before the large front door of the house. Through the open door, Ajibọ could see the open casket of the dead woman laid out on a table in the centre of the large living room. People were walking slowly around it, paying their final respects and offering condolences to the widower, who sat with several family members a few feet away from the coffin.

Ajibọ felt another shiver tremble her body—Uh-uh; she doesn’t want to see a dead body…no way! By her side, the woman stopped suddenly and looked at Ajibọ. There was a look in her eyes that baffled Ajibọ. She looked both terrified and excited, intrepid, yet uncertain.

“Sister, please help me into the house. I’m so tired,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her head still hung low, her face staring into the floor as if she were afraid to look people in the eyes. Ajibọ felt too tired to think, too drained to speak, too confused to analyse the woman’s odd behaviour. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep forever—Oh please God, don’t let it be that she’s picked up some weird virus in this place? That’s all she needs, falling sick just days before her traditional wedding. Just wait till she finds Mike. She’ll give him a piece of her mind alright…

“It’s okay; come, let’s go inside. We’ll find somewhere quiet for….” Ajibọ stopped, a frown creasing her forehead. She cleared her throat several times, loudly and violently—is it her imagination or did her voice just sound weird, deep and husky, just like a man’s voice?

“Jesus! Ancestors save our soul!”

“Oh sweet God! Look what this foolish girl has brought into the house!”

“Help! Ugomma’s ghost has returned!”

“Call the witchdoctor quick! Tell him to come and send this ghost back to where it’s come from!”

“Go! Go! In Jesus name, I command you to leave this place at once and return to your grave!”

Ajibọ heard the screams before she felt the object, a wooden stool, which hit her full-front. She stumbled and shouted out in pain, stunned by the seething rage on the faces of the crowd inside the house. Several people were fleeing in panic, while a few brave men stood their ground, shouting at her, their eyes wild with fury and terror. The widower looked dazed, staring at her with horror-goggled eyes.

“Go! You don’t belong here anymore. Return to your grave and let your poor husband grieve your death in peace. Go! Your child is safe and well. He’ll be cared for by the clan, you don’t need to worry about him. But you must leave now before the witchdoctor arrives and chains your spirit for eternity. Then, you’ll be damned in eternal restlessness, denied all reincarnation back to your clan.”

Ajibọ listened slack-jawed to the words the men shrieked at her—Are they crazy? Are they blind or what? Does she look like their dead relative in any way?

“I’m Ajibọ, Chief Okoro’s daughter, Mike’s fiancée. I just came back from England for my traditional wedding. You all know me. I’m not Ugomma; I don’t even know…”

Again, she broke off, covering her mouth with her hand, which trembled like leaves beneath a Harmattan wind—Oh god! Oh god! What’s the matter with her? Why is she speaking in this weird baritone voice, just like the woman with her? She turned terrified eyes at her companion.

Ajibọ screamed; and screamed.

By her side stood her clone, a young beautiful woman dressed in a thin-sleeved, pink gown and gold-tinted hair extensions. On one of her fingers, tipped with gleaming long nails, nestled a glittery emerald ring. Her clone smiled pityingly at her, detached her warm, warm arm from hers, and ran towards the angry men, crying and clinging to their arms.

“I’m sorry…please forgive me. She deceived me; I didn’t know who she was. She offered me her hand in a handshake, and asked me to bring her into the house because she wasn’t feeling well. I felt sorry for her and brought her here. I’m not too familiar with the village, since I’ve been abroad for a long time. So, I had no idea who she was, till now.”

Ajibọ listened to her clone speaking in a voice she now recognised as her own pitched voice. She was shaking her head, waving her arms to stop the woman’s lies. Her eyes caught sight of her hands and she froze. She stared in horror at the unfamiliar chipped nails before stooping to look at her feet, the unfamiliar shaped feet of a stranger. A flowing Bubu gown covered her body, and she didn’t need to touch her head to know it would be covered by a scarf.

“Mike! Mike! Oh, please Jesus! Miiiiike!” she was screaming, running out of the house on feet that felt like rocks. People fled from her, mostly women and children. Others mastered their terror and started to stone her. She screamed in agony, shielding her head from their sharp missiles. In a blink, a group of men surround her, led by the witchdoctor, his fearsome face painted with white chalk and blood streaks.

Suddenly, she saw Mike in their midst. He held a big stick in his hand, and within seconds, his stick joined the other sticks hitting her with relentless, brutal rage.

“Go! Return to your grave! Go to your ancestors! Go, ghost; go!” they shrieked as they shoved her towards the open grave dug behind the house.

“I’m not Ugomma…I’m Ajibọ… Ajibọ… Ajibọ…”

Even as the words tumbled from her bloodied lips, shrieked desperately over and over inside her dizzy head, she felt herself start to tumble, falling, screaming, till she hit the soft soil of the open grave waiting to receive Ugomma’s coffin. She was already choking on the damp soil when the heavy coffin hit her head and knocked her out, sending her to merciful oblivion.

Ajibọ was dead before the first shovel of earth started to cover the deep, dark, grave.

End

(Q & A)

This little, gruesome piece of fiction was inspired by a story I heard from my late uncle, Sebastian, when I was either nine or ten years old. Despite my terror, I pestered my uncle with questions…unfortunately, I was notorious for irritating my elders with questions as a child. Below are some of the questions I asked my uncle, and the answers he gave me. I hope they help resolve any questions you too might have. If not, let me know in the comments and I’ll be happy to give my own thoughts on the matter. In the meantime, if you enjoyed this story, please share it and get your friends to subscribe to Nuzo’s Nightmare Pit here -

Little Nuzo: Uncle, why did the little boy say “Bad Meat”?

A: Because unlike most adults, (unless they’re powerful witchdoctors and medicine women), children and animals have the ability to recognise spirits and ghosts. So, the little boy smelled Ugomma’s true scent, the rotten odour of a putrid corpse. It smelled like bad meat to him, raw meat that’s gone off and smelled bad.

Little Nuzo: Uncle, how did the ghost turn into Ajibọ?

A: Because Ajibọ was foolish enough to shake her hand and lead her into the house. Everybody knows that in our Igbo custom, you never shake anybody’s hand at a funeral wake, because that’s when the malevolent spirits and ghosts loiter around, looking for humans to possess and thereby, return once again to life. Ajibọ, a name that means, “one that has returned from the white-man’s lands”, was ignorant of our customs and foolishly shook the hand of this strange woman. And to make things worse, she invited her into the house where her corpse lay, and thereby completed the possession by the dead woman’s spirit. I hope you’ll remember this story and never, ever shake anyone’s hand if you attend a wake, not even if it’s someone you know. Remember, the ghosts can take any form they like to deceive you.

Little Nuzo: But Uncle, didn’t they see Ugomma’s body inside her coffin? So, how can there be two Ugommas?

A: This child! Chei! You’ll kill me with your questions one of these days. How am I supposed to know, eh? Now run along for your dinner, and don’t forget what I told you. What must you never do?

Little Nuzo: I must never, ever, shake anybody’s hand if I go to a funeral wake, even if it’s someone I know. Thank you, Uncle Sebastian, for the story. Will you tell me another one tomorrow?