4th April, 2016 Writers

The evening was draped in fuzzy weather. The sun that shone earlier in the day was a camouflage. Dark clouds. Strong winds. Sign of heavy rain. The trip had to be made. It's a family ritual.

We journeyed. Mimie and I.

It was a see-through gate at the entrance. I attempted to place my hand on the gate in a bid to push but instead it swung open by itself.

Well built graves. Beautifully designed epitaphs. Sweet words that would make angels feel like a sinner. Everyone seems to be an angel when they die, even Hitler.

One expects lines like;

"He was an evil man during his days."

But, No. All we see is;

"...a good man. Rest in the bosom of the Lord."


Not everyone is resting. I once dreamt that even in death, Hitler was putting together an army in preparation for Armageddon. World War Z.
My dreams come true.

We were halfway way through the cemetery. Hands tightly held. Creepy feeling. We knew we weren't alone. Yet we saw no one. We were being watched.
The tranquility made my heart race faster than Vettel's car in F1. It wasn't supposed to be this calm.

Grandpa's grave was almost at the end of the cemetery. Isolated.
Served him right. 'Evil' was his apprentice during his days.

I remember when the mortuary authorities threatened to move him out if we fail to come get his body. It was alleged that, even in death, he revolted against them, claiming that the morgue wasn't cold enough.

How they came to find out his reasons for revolting remains a mystery. Who else communicates with the dead if not ghosts.

Our heartbeats resonated on the same frequency when we got to his grave and discovered his epitaph was blank. We wrote beautiful words here.

I threw the little box I had with my on the grave.

Mission complete.

We can now head back home.

Just as we attempted to turn, we felt strong hands on our shoulders...

Rivers, Nigeria
  • The Undead Never Dies

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