The train from Ibadan shuddered into Lagos
Station with her husband’s first wife’s ashes in
a tin box wrapped in brown cloth. Amina had not
cried since the funeral in Enugu. She carried no
dress for the burial, only the church hymnbook
and a letter from her father: “God will judge
her, not you.”
The house in Surulere still smelled of kola nut
and burnt incense. The first wife’s name —
Chinyere — was carved into the wooden doorframe,
not as memorial, but as warning. The house had
three bedrooms. Only two were used. The third,
sealed with salt and goat’s blood, still bore
the nameplate Chinyere had painted before she
vanished.
Amina slept on the floor that first night. The
second night, the floor cracked beneath her. The
third night, the walls wept black water.
She knew then: the curse was not in Chinyere’s
death. It was in the marriage.
Every man who married under Pastor Okeke’s
blessing had to take two wives — one for the
flesh, one for the spirit. The second wife was
never chosen. She was given. The first wife, the
spiritwife, had to die before the second could
live. But Chinyere had refused to die. She had
walked into the shrine at Oshogbo and returned
with a contract written in palm oil and chicken
blood: she would live, and every child born to
the second wife would be stillborn.
The secret society — the Eze Nna Umu — did not
punish the husband. They punished the wives.
Amina found the ledger in the attic. Names.
Dates. Births. Deaths. Five wives since 1958.
Four dead. One missing. All buried in unmarked
graves near the old railway line.
On the seventh night, she lit the oil lamp in
the sealed room. The air turned thick as garri
paste. A voice — not Chinyere’s, not human —
whispered in Pidgin: “You take her place, you
pay her debt.”
She did not scream. She poured the ashes into
the lamp.
The fire did not burn. It swallowed.
When the neighbours came at dawn, they found
Amina kneeling on the floor, her skin pale as
yam flour, her hands still holding the empty tin.
The sealed room was gone. The doorframe was
clean.
Chinyere’s name had vanished.
That afternoon, Amina walked to the church and
handed Pastor Okeke a second letter — her own.
She did not speak.
The pastor read it. He wept.
Three days later, he married a third wife.
No one asked why the first wife’s ashes were not
buried.
No one asked why the second wife did not bleed
on her wedding night.
The curse did not lift.
It changed hands.
And the house in Surulere?
It now has four bedrooms.
One remains sealed.
One remains empty.
And the third?
It smells like kola nut.
And burnt incense.
