The Return Beyond the Grave
Three days after we buried my father, he walked into our living room, dropped his car key on the table, and asked why his food wasn’t ready.
The scene unfolded on a humid afternoon in our modest home in Enugu, Nigeria, the air thick with the scent of jollof rice and the lingering sorrow of loss. I, Ezinne, 17 years old and still grappling with the shock of his death, stood frozen, a broom slipping from my hand and clattering to the tiled floor. My mother, Mummy, turned slowly from the kitchen doorway, her wrapper halfway tied, her eyes widening as if she were witnessing a specter from a dream. My younger brother, Chike, 12 and usually full of chatter, sat on the floor beside the TV, arranging his school shoes. He looked up, blinked twice, and whispered, “Daddy?”
The man standing there was an uncanny mirror of him—same broad shoulders, same jagged scar on his left cheek from a childhood fall, even the same scratched wristwatch he always wore before the accident. But this version bore a fresh, angry cut under his right eye and a strange black watch on his wrist, its surface blinking faintly like the light from a phone screen. The room held its breath, a silence so thick it pressed against my chest.
Mummy screamed—a high, piercing wail—and slumped to the floor before anyone could catch her. Chike bolted to the corner, his small frame trembling as tears streamed down his face. I didn’t move. I just stood there, staring at the figure who looked like my father, my mind racing to reconcile the impossible. His clothes weren’t new; he wore the same white shirt stained with oil from the day of the crash, the one we had peeled off his lifeless body before the mortuary. Yet, it was clean, ironed, and carried a faint whiff of petrol, as if he’d just stepped out of a garage.
“Ezinne,” he said, his voice calm, tired, like someone returning from a long, arduous journey. “Is there no food in this house again?” The question was so ordinary, so familiar, that it sent a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t answer. My mouth refused to form words, my throat dry as the harmattan wind.
He looked around as if nothing were amiss, adjusting the curtain by the window with a slight frown at the dust on the table. Then, with the casual ease of habit, he dropped into his old armchair—the same one we had shoved to the side after the condolence visit, its presence a painful reminder of his absence. He leaned back, his posture relaxed, humming that old church hymn, “Amazing Grace,” which he used to sing on Sunday mornings.
“Daddy,” I finally managed, my voice shaking like a leaf in a storm. “We buried you.” The words felt surreal, a confession to a ghost.
He smiled, small and quiet. “I know.” The casualness of his response chilled my blood, as if death were merely a detour.
“Where have you been?” I asked, my curiosity battling my fear.
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes calm but distant, as if peering into a memory from another realm. “Somewhere between here and there,” he said softly. “But I made it back.” The cryptic answer hung in the air, unanswered questions piling up like storm clouds.
Mummy began to stir on the floor, her murmurs turning into frantic prayers in Igbo—“Chineke, take him back!”—as she clutched her chest. I wanted to help her up, but my legs felt rooted, heavy with disbelief. Chike peeked from the corner, his sobs quieting as he watched, wide-eyed.
Then, a sound broke the tension—a car engine rumbling outside. It was familiar, unmistakable. I shuffled to the window, my heart pounding. There, in the compound, sat Daddy’s black Toyota Camry, the same one we had towed to the mechanic’s after the fatal crash on the Enugu-Onitsha road three weeks ago. Its engine idled, headlights casting a ghostly glow on the wall. The car had been totaled, its frame twisted beyond repair—yet here it was, whole, running.
I turned back slowly. He was still in that chair, eyes half-closed, humming that hymn, the strange watch on his wrist blinking steadily. Mummy’s shouts grew louder, a desperate plea for him to “go back wherever he came from.” He didn’t flinch. His smile remained, faint but unwavering, as if he were at peace with a reality we couldn’t grasp.
That’s when the phone rang, shattering the surreal calm. It was Uncle Chidi, Daddy’s younger brother, calling from the village. “Ezinne, is your father there?” he asked, his voice trembling. “The elders say they felt his spirit at the grave this morning. The ground was disturbed.”
I glanced at the man in the chair, then at the car outside. The watch’s light pulsed like a heartbeat. Whatever this was—resurrection, apparition, or something darker—it wasn’t over. Mummy’s prayers turned to wails, Chike clung to her skirt, and I stood frozen, the broom still on the floor, a silent witness to a mystery that had just begun to unfold. The air grew thick with the scent of petrol and the echo of that hymn, a bridge between the living and the unknown. And in that moment, I knew our lives would never be the same.
