The oil drum arrived at Eunice’s doorstep in
Ojota at dawn, rusted but sealed, no sender, no
note — just a single red palm nut tucked under
the lid. She cracked it with a hammer. Inside,
not oil — naira notes, crisp and new, stacked
like bricks. She counted fifty thousand. Enough
to pay the hospital bill for her son’s fever,
buy the house behind the church, send him to
Queen’s College. That night, she prayed in the
kitchen, sweat on her brow, whispering thanks to
God.
By Wednesday, her boy, Tobi, seven years old,
began sleeping upright. He didn’t wake when the
generator died. He didn’t blink when the
neighbour’s rooster crowed at midnight. On
Friday, he spoke — not in Pidgin, not in English
— but in the old Yoruba of the dead, calling
names no living child should know: “Adeola, your
head is in the well.” The neighbour’s daughter
had drowned in 1958. The pastor came. He poured
kerosene on the drum, lit it. The flames didn’t
burn right — they turned blue, then green. The
smell? Burnt pepper and wet earth.
The church rule: money from spirits must be
buried under a fig tree before moonrise, or the
spirit claims the firstborn. Eunice knew this
from her mother, who buried three goats after
her husband’s funeral. But the money was already
spent — half on medicine, half on shoes for
Tobi’s new school. The rest? Hidden under the
floorboard, wrapped in a wrapper from the Lagos
market that still smelled of garri and palm wine.
On Saturday, Tobi’s tongue swelled. He couldn’t
swallow. His eyes rolled back until only the
whites showed. The nurse at the clinic said it
was hysteria. The herbalist said it was the
spirit’s breath. The pastor said, “Your wealth
is a chain. You wore it like a necklace.” Eunice
dug under the floorboard. The notes were cold.
She took them, walked to the abandoned well
behind the old mission station, where the
children still whisper about the girl who
drowned. She poured the money in. One by one.
The notes didn’t sink. They floated. Then they
burned — no smoke, no ash — just a whisper in
the air: “Eunice, you kept the light. Now we
take the child.”
At midnight, Tobi sat up. He smiled. He spoke in
his own voice. “Mama, I’m hungry.” He ate the
yam she offered. His eyes were clear.
The next morning, the drum was gone. The money
was gone. But the floorboard was wet. And Tobi’s
school uniform — the one he wore to church — now
had a stain that never washed out. It looked
like oil. But when the sun hit it, it shimmered
like a prayer bead.
Eunice didn’t buy new shoes. She didn’t move
house. She started selling pap at the Oshodi
market, every morning, before dawn. She never
spoke of the drum. But every Friday, she leaves
a cup of palm wine under the fig tree — and
watches the wind carry it away.
