Encounter with a ghost

ENCOUNTER WITH A GHOST

If I had been told, I would have simply disregarded it. Another delusion, I would say. I was no believer of any superstition, and I made sure to put that clear to anyone I associated with. My friends would say my attitude towards things that were in fact, true, even as they sounded improbable, would misguide me some day. I would only laugh at their statement.

“I’m not changing my views either ways,” I would firmly reply.

I’m not sure if that reply still stands today. What I’ve seen with my own eyes had changed that. And now, I am left to decide whether to believe all superstitions I hear. The world we live in is an open, yet strange world. I would never have believed it if someone had told me. But one cannot easily disparage what the eyes have seen, the mouth has spoken to, and the skin has felt. I never told my superstitious friends about it, but I knew from that very day I saw him, I was changing my stance to a superstition.

I was riding through the streets of Sokoto city that very day. The sun there was as usual, fierce. Nothing compared to the one I left in Minna few years back. As unpredictable as Sokoto’s weather was, dark clouds suddenly started forming. And before I knew, it started. First like a shower, but before I could get to the Maggi market close to the roundabout at Dandima, it turned into a downpour. If I wanted to avoid being drenched to my underwear, I had no other choice than to take refuge in one of the shops few meters before the market. Getting off the motorcycle, I hurriedly dragged it into the first empty space I could find. I had borrowed it from a friend, and wouldn’t want anything to go wrong with it. I was lucky to have found a closed shop. I stood in its balcony. I don’t know what time it was then. My wrist watch was inoperative – a characteristic shared by most wrist watches worn by young men. The time setting on my phone was inaccurate either. But knowing that I had left the lodge I was staying early in the morning, I guessed it should be anywhere around ten.

I stood there, breathing in the sweet air from the rain. I loved rains. Especially, rains that came without winds; the like that was currently falling. I had once written a poem on such rains. I thought of my morning appointment with Zahra. We had arranged to meet the night before. It was to be our first meeting. A meeting I looked forward to – I admired the girl a lot. Although the rain was jeopardizing the possibility of that meeting, I was surprisingly happy about it. The colder the weather, the cozier we would both be, I reasoned. I knew she would object to coming out after the rain. Her mother would not let her, she would probably say. But I knew I wasn’t going to accept that. I would simply cajole her to sneak out. Moreover, if the internet love she had shown me earlier on was anything true, she would happily oblige. Everything was moving fine in my mind. I could feel myself smiling. Today would be epic! I beamed.

As I stood there, another person intruded me. From the way he looked, I could not see any reason for him running away from the rain – he was already drenched. Water was dripping off from his almost tattered buba. He turned after squeezing out the water from the lower part of his garment,

“Salaamu-alaikum,” he greeted.

I rose my head to answer, and froze almost immediately. Was who I was looking at really who I thought it was? I wondered. Maybe the man of around fifty noticed the puzzlement,

“Anything the matter?” he asked.

“No—Nothing,” I stammered. “Wa-alaika-salaam.”

“Sorry if I scared you,” he said in Hausa.

“No, it’s nothing Baba,” I answered, accordingly.

“Okay then,” he finalized.

We stood there quietly. However, secretly, I was scared to the bone. Didn’t he know who I was? Or maybe he was feigning ignorance? I asked myself as I stole a look at him. Here I was, standing side by side with my friend’s supposed—or should I simply say—late father. I had witnessed his funeral proceedings. Was I not in fact, one of those that dug his grave? How could I have forgotten that day, when I and few others had together shed tears with my friend? He was devastated by his father’s death. I spent a long time trying to quieten him, even as I cried. I knew the pain of losing a parent. I had also lost my father few years before then. And even though I hadn’t known my friend for as long as a year, we considered each other the best of friends, and one person’s agony was equally the other’s. We had met in boarding school about a year back before then. I had seen the man once. But at the time, I have not made friends with his son yet. Except for the incentives from father his son would bring for me on resumption from holidays, I had seen nothing of the man again. The one and only day I would have gotten to see him again, was the day we went to his funeral in his hometown.

How was I then looking at the same man I shed memorable tears for? I was lost in thought. Maybe I was hallucinating. Or I may have been dreaming all along. I was unsure of the state I was in. I was so engrossed in my mix-up that I didn’t realize the rain had turned to a slight drizzle.

“Ah, Alhamdulillah,” the man’s voice jerked me back to life. “The rain has subsided.”

I rose my head and gave him a faint smile. I think he noticed I was shivering.

“You are shivering,” he laughed. “And you didn’t even get wet.”

I forced a smile. If only he knew why I shivered. Perhaps he knew, but enjoyed seeing me that way. He chatted on as we both waited for the drizzling to stop. We could see the sun forcing its way through the clouds. I was not saying much, but it didn’t appear the man cared. By the time the rain stopped, I was feeling a little bit at ease. Not with the fact that I was talking to a ghost, but that I was to a harmless one. 

The sun finally conquered the clouds. Except for the water-logged holes, the culverts that still contained running water, and of course, the man that still looked drenched, everywhere appeared dry. That was one of the wonders of The Seat of the Caliphate: Sokoto. We both stepped out of our sanctuary. The man bade me farewell. As he turned to go, I had a sudden inclination.

“I’m sorry Baba,” I called. “If you wouldn’t mind, I will love to give you a lift back home.”

“Really?” he asked, pleased. “Thank you, my son.”

“It’s nothing Baba.”

Forgetting that I needed to give Zahra a call and explain things to her, I carefully lowered down the motorcycle for the man to hop on. I rode slowly as he directed me to his house. We arrived at a mud house in Arkillan mallam shortly after.

“Wait for me here,” the man announced as he got off. “I will just change my cloth and be with you shortly.”

“Baba tsaya dan Allah,” I said in Hausa. “wait, please.”

“Yadai?” he asked. “What is it?”

“Do you know me?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

I shuddered at his reply. So, he knew all along, I thought. But just before I could say anything, he added:

“You are the boy I met a while ago while it was raining.”

We both laughed.

“No, seriously,” I pushed. “You don’t remember me?”

“Gaskiya, I don’t.”

I scratched my head, thinking of how best to approach the matter.

“I am Aliyu,” I announced. “Aliyu, Ndana’s school friend.”

The man scratched his head in turn.

“Ndana?” he was puzzled.

“I mean, your son Ndana,” I explained.

And I saw the man’s jaw fall. His eyes reddened immediately. Before I knew, tears flowed freely down. I was confused. Why was he crying? Was he remorseful over faking his own death? But could he have fooled his own wife and child? I asked him politely and carefully, all I needed answers to.

As I rode back home that morning, I turned the man’s words in my head. True enough, he was a ghost—or more properly, a wandering ghost. I’ve heard numerous accounts of people dying but later being rumored to be seen in other places. Superstitions! I would angrily say. A dead person can never be seen anywhere. But even as I disregarded that fact, the phenomenon behind it was quite clear: The supposed dead persons whose ghosts were seen in other places have in fact, not naturally died. The deaths were simply orchestrated by witchcraft. The corpses everyone would see were tree stumps that were made to look like the deceased. The deceased are however, teleported to faraway places to wander; either in the bush, if the witch or wizard responsible was cruel, or in a settlement to start a new life, if the witch or wizard was considerate – never to return home again. If by rare chance, any of such persons were to be found and brought back home, the witch or wizard responsible for their death will instantly, on seeing the person, fall and confess their sins. After which they would die a miserable death. The returned ghosts would themselves not last more than two years before dying a real, natural death.

I was starting to believe some of those facts now. For what the man related to me, coupled with the little I knew were in accordance with them. I had arranged with the man to inform his relatives. He had agreed to the suggestion. On reaching home, I had phoned my friend, Ndana. I chose my words carefully. Broaching such news to a close relative wasn’t going to be an easy task. I was pleased by the way Ndana reacted. He was ecstatic. He wanted to speak to his dead father almost immediately. I had asked him to be patient. That I was going back to his father’s place later in the day. He had thanked me. I was happy for him.

At around five-thirty in the evening that same day, I rode down to Arkillan mallam. I surprisingly, didn’t have any trouble locating the house. It was unlike me to get the exact directions to a place that I had only being to once. But I guess, by the virtue of the task I had embarked on, everything was going smoothly for me. Before I came down there, Ndana had put his mother on the phone. The woman had remarried, but was anxious to hear the voice of her former husband. She had requested I went there immediately, when in fact, I intended to go close to the time of the dusk prayer.

I came down from the bike, and made a loud Salam at the house’s door. There was this smile on my face. I didn’t know what it was for. Smile of happiness, maybe, I thought. My Salam was answered by an unusual voice. The man that came out was not who I was expecting. I greeted him anyway. I then asked to see my friend’s father.

“I’ve not seen him since he went out in the morning,” the man replied.

Maybe he wasn’t back from his business yet, I thought. So, I asked:

“Please, when will he be back?”

“He should have been back long ago,” the man replied, “I’ve lived in this house with him for two years now, and he has never stayed out this late before.”

I was now confused. What was this man saying? My friend’s father had told me earlier in the morning that he sold fried fish in town, and usually comes back by seven in the evening each day. Why was this man now saying he had never stayed out late when it was just some minutes to the hour of six?

“But he told me he always comes back by seven.”

“He did? Well, I don’t recall ever seeing him outside by that time, except if he goes out to that mosque over there to pray.”

I started to shiver. The man noticed and asked what was wrong. I narrated everything to him. We both sat and pondered. And then it was only after I left the place that it dawned on me the other phenomena associated with wandering ghosts. It had been said that only few people have successfully brought home wandering ghosts. And those few people were mostly hunters that were highly skilled in magic. For it was with no doubt that if wandering ghosts realize they would be taken back home, the charm acting on their being will immediately, unconsciously, compel them to leave that place they were spotted. They would then move to other places far away, to begin life afresh. I called Ndana and explained things to him and his mother. We all cried.

That night, I laid on my bed with a mind full of thoughts. This world we live in is an open, yet strange world, I concluded. I knew then that not all superstitions were superstitions. And that this superstition, if ever it were one, was one I had to regard. For how could I deny that which I have been a part of? I laid there turning all that happened that day in my head. And then suddenly, I wondered, whether my own father died a natural death. I found myself wishing he didn’t…… That he was living a new life in another place. And that someday, I would set my eyes on him again, even if it were to be as brief as it was with Ndana’s father, and call him Daddy once more. For I have missed him too much. For a moment, I craved for a superstition—a delusion.

As I drank in my fantasies, I could feel my tears streaming down freely. And then, my phone rang. I picked it up. Zahra! I dropped the phone absent-mindedly and turned on the bed. This is no time for romance my dear, I mumbled.