This life ehn… something that is sweet can also be deadly. I’m not writing this to scare you. This one happened to me life and direct and I said I must share my story. That’s how me and Abigail that just came back from school for the sallah break nearly died because of one visit to collect ram meat.
It happened during the last Eid celebration. Second day of Sallah, to be precise. Hamzat, our long-time friend and correct guy, had called me that morning. His voice was full of excitement.
Cheta, where una dey? Ram meat don set o! My mama don fry meat tire. You and Abigail better come collect una own<
Before I even cut the call, Abigail had tied her scarf. She shouted from the room, “Tell him I’m coming with my cooler o!” We didn’t even dress too much. Just slippers and kaftan. It was food we were going for not beauty contest. Hamzat lived two streets behind our estate. Normally, we would take the main road that bends around the canal, but that day, to save time we decided to pass the old shortcut, it was a small bush path behind one mosque. People used to pass it before, but recently they have been avoiding it. They said it was “not safe anymore.” But safe or not, our stomachs were louder than our brains. And besides, nothing could happen to us in broad daylight. The road was dry, with leaves all over the ground and small, tall trees on both sides. At first, everything was okay. We were even laughing and talking about how we would scatter Hamzat’s pot of jollof rice and drink chilled coke. Then the place started getting too quiet. No birds, no breeze, no nothing. We just dey waka but my chest started feeling somehow. Abigail too became quiet. I could tell she was feeling the same thing. Then we saw something. A small calabash by the corner and inside was palm oil, feathers and about six eggs just sitting there. I slowed down. “Abigail, you see wetin I dey see?” Abigail nodded. “No be juju be that?” We both laughed and continued walking fast. “Make we juss reach Hamzat house abeg. All this one no concern us,” she muttered. But the more we walked, the more it felt like we were walking inside a circle. The same tree with a big nail on its bark came up again. Then again. I brought out my phone to find our exact location… no network. Abigail checked hers. “Zero bars. Cheta, this thing is not funny o. I think we’re lost.” Lost ke? I was about to answer when we heard the sound. Something was dragging. Not walking. Dragging. Slow, heavy and close. We looked around and saw nothing. But the sound came again. This time it was followed by laughter. Not child or adult laughter but something between a cry and a cough. Very faint. Very wrong. Very scary. I grabbed Abigail’s hand and told her. “Run.” We didn’t wait. We just took off. Bush slapped us, branches scratched us. I didn’t care. We ran like two mad people. We didn’t even know where we were going. Then we saw it. A figure. Tall like an electric pole. Dressed in dirty stained white. Like it had soaked in blood and dried again. Its face was covered with cloth but the eyes… those eyes were deep, dark and shiny. Abigail screamed. The thing didn’t move. It just stood there, breathing like someone gasping for air. Then it raised one hand like it was greeting us. I almost fainted. We turned again and ran in another direction. Our legs were shaking. Abigail was limping from where she hit a stump. I was bleeding from my knee. But we didn’t stop. Suddenly, we ran into a thick smoke. No fire. Just smoke. We couldn’t see well but in the middle of it we saw a narrow path. One we hadn’t seen before. I dragged Abigail. “Let’s go. That thing is still behind us.” We followed the path and as God would have it the smoke cleared and we found ourselves behind someone’s house. I dropped to the ground, panting. Abigail collapsed beside me. A woman came out and shouted, “Who are you people?! What happened to you?!” We couldn’t talk. It was like our mouths stopped working. Our bodies were shaking like we had entered a deep freezer. A few minutes later, Hamzat ran in from the front. “Cheta?! Abigail?! I’ve been calling you since! Where did you people enter?!” We gradually found our voice then we explained to him and the others, in broken pieces our experience in the bush. His eyes widened. “That shortcut?” he asked. “People don stop to dey use am now. Dem say one man enter there last year during Sallah and he no come back. Him family still dey look for am. Since that time, people dey see strange strange things inside that bush.” Abigail looked at me, still breathing fast. “I don’t want meat again.” Me too. I couldn’t even drink water. My body was cold despite the sun. That day, we didn’t touch a single piece of meat. We stayed inside Hamzat’s living room, shivering under wrapper while everybody outside was eating and dancing. By evening, my temperature had started rising. Abigail kept going in and out of sleep, mumbling strange things in her dreams. At some point, Hamzat’s mother came and lit a stick of incense in the corner. She said it was for cleansing. We didn’t leave Hamzat’s house that day. In fact, we slept there. That night, I had a dream. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream, I can’t say. I was back in the bush, standing in front of that same tall figure. But this time, it wasn’t alone. Around it were smaller children with no faces and they were humming a tune that chilled my blood. The tall one raised its hand again and the ground opened under me. I was falling into blackness and the voices got louder. Then I woke up. Sweating. Heart beating like drum and on my wrapper was a single white feather… same kind we saw in that calabash. I didn’t tell Abigail. I just quietly folded the wrapper and tucked it under the chair. The next morning, we left. But even after we got back to our own side, things weren’t the same. Abigail stopped eating meat completely. Red meat, chicken, turkey even egg, she couldn’t go near it. She said anytime she smelled cooked meat, she would hear that laughter again in her head. And as for me the dreams never stopped. It’s always the same bush. Same path. Same thing watching me. I told my aunt who is a prayer warrior and she looked at me in silence for a long time. Then she said, “Sometimes, spirits no dey want sacrifice, they just want witnesses, make people take dia eye see them and once you see them, that memory no go leave you lailai.” That shook me. That bush path we used is still there but now grass has covered most of it. Last month, I heard one woman talking in the market. She said a schoolboy entered that same bush and came out naked, whispering things in Hausa even though he’s Igbo. They had to take him to a pastor. I didn’t say a word. I just bought my onions and left. You see, this experience has taught me that in life, some paths are not shortcuts, they are traps and some invitations are not hospitality, they are baits and some things in this world are hungry… not for food but for people. So next Sallah, if you hear somebody shout: > “Meat don ready o!”
Please ask one question first:
> “Which road leads to the pot?”
Because me and Abigail we now know that the answer can be the difference between chop belle full or disappear without trace.
That day in that bush, what we saw wasn’t human. It wasn’t animal. It was something else. Something hungry. Something that knew it was Sallah and maybe it also came out to feast.
I have made a decision. Any food that requires bush path, count me out. If you cannot bring the meat to my house, keep it.
