In the village of Abah, funerals never seemed quite normal.  They were more like weddings or child-naming ceremonies.   The village was well known for its loud and over-celebrated festivities.  Weddings, house warming parties, chieftaincy title ceremonies were lively, colorful and very flamboyant.  These were opportunities for the residents of the village to show off the latest trend in expensive wear, new wives and husbands, new cars and the flashiest jewelry.  The village was home to some of the wealthiest people in town of Olulo and they were not averse to showing it.

 Masquerades danced in resplendent costumes. If the deceased happened to be important, now there was a reason to really throw a party.  It was tradition.  The ancestors had to be placated so the deceased would reach them without losing his or her way.  Showing off wealth was a secondary reason, or so the villagers like to think. Although preceding events of the days before the funeral had been disturbing, no one was in the mood to spoil the promise of a fun-filled day with the doomsday prophecy of naysayers.  The villagers were not going to allow superstition and a few minor incidents ruin their chance of three days of free drinks and food. 

The deceased was not the village chief, but he was the unofficial right-hand man.  The entire village knew no decision was made without his input.  Outwardly, he was a kind yet strict disciplinarian. He had a charming personality that won him a lot of admirers, thus he had four wives and was about to marry a fifth when he died under mysterious circumstances.  The local physician preferred to call it pneumonia but as it was the month of May and the rainy season had not started, the physician's opinion carried little weight.  Everyone knew one could only get pneumonia from the rainy season, to them western doctors knew very little of the traditional healing methods.  So, the wives pointed accusing fingers at each other, his political rivals pointed accusing fingers at each other, his siblings pointed accusing fingers at each other, but the deceased, Ichie Samson, was such a friendly man it was difficult to decide who or what to blame, so it was agreed all would conveniently blame pneumonia. 

The morning of the funeral started in full swing after the burial. In Ichie Samson's compound, Masquerades were already dancing in a frenzy hoping to get the day started with a huge crowd.  A few yards away from the spectacle, a the babble of women had been cooking for the past 48 hours, trying to keep up with the demand for more akpu and varied soup dishes.  There were complaints and scoldings as mothers tried to stop their young children from dashing around.  The children took advantage of the festivities to get away with as much as they could.  The women would occasionally get up to stretch, moan and groan aloud, commenting on how long each had been without sleep and how much they hurt all over, then spontaneously and miraculously break into a dance matching the beating drums, their pain suddenly forgotten. 

At exactly 11 a.m., the drums stopped. The chief had arrived.  There were cries salutations all around as he walked around the compound waving his fan before taking a seat on his stool perched on an elevated platform.  The drums started up again as more villagers joined in the dancing.

After an hour and a half, the drums stopped again, signaling the beginning of the funeral ceremony.  The chief stepped down from his stool, taking slow steps amidst cheers and blessings.  He was going to say the traditional prayer or libation offered to the gods. He held his oji in his right hand and a cup of palm wine tapped by the village’s master wine trapper, in the other.  Suddenly a small wind blew into the crowd, lifting sand and dust everywhere.

Some people laughed as they tried to get rid of gritty particles in their eyes. They shielded their faces with their arms as the wind picked up speed and ferocity.  The chief waited for the small wind to blow over. It got worse.  Then pandemonium broke.

Ichie Samson’s grave tucked away in the corner of his compound became engulfed in what had become a sand storm.  Obikwa, the village mad man was busy foraging around abandoned half eaten meals. He had once been the most skilled wrestler in Olulo.  Very tall, muscular and successful, he was quite a celebrity until one day he boasted he could wrestle anyone, man or god.  When he became crazy a week later, some figured it was his punishment for challenging the gods to a wrestling match.   The mad man suddenly stood upright and in a voice many recognized as Ichie Samson’s, shouted, “You killed me!  You killed me!”  Guests tried to scramble for safety and in the noise and confusion, fell over one another. The howling wind got louder and tossed people, chairs, tables and their contents, canopies, and tree branches everywhere. Then just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.  The once festive atmosphere was replaced with cries of pain and terror. 

The village chief cowered behind a tree; his bodyguards were nowhere to be found.  Obikwa, standing still with a distant look in his eyes, suddenly walked towards the chief, carefully stepping over people and debris.  He looked comical in his dirty clothes and he appeared untouched or unfazed by the commotion around him.  He stopped a few yards away from the tree and pointed to the chief and once more in the eerily familiar voice of the dead man cried, “You killed me!”  He turned on his heels and walked away, out of the compound. 

The few individuals that witnessed the incident were too stunned to believe it.  Others were busy running for their lives, away from the wrath of the angry gods they believed were responsible.  The bodyguards picked themselves up from where the wind had thrown them and returned to their master.  They picked up the chief and half carried the terrified man, now a blubbering and scared mess with clothes torn and dirtied, to his Mercedes. 

The rest of the day was spent cleaning up and gossiping about how the gods spoke through a mad man.  No one dared mention the dead man or what he or she thought really happened.  It was an abomination for the dead to come back.  As for Obikwa the mad man, he went his merry way, tattered clothes, unkempt hair and all, not realizing the disturbing situation he had been involved in. 

The village council held an emergency meeting that evening to discuss how to appease the gods.  After three hours of heated arguments, three cows, five goats and fifteen chickens were slated for slaughter the following day at the shrine of Nruala the god of health and well-being, protector of the village.  The chief was absent from the meeting, having retired early on with an upset stomach.