Eunice Nwankwo returned from London with a

degree in finance, a BMW, and a vow to marry

only a man who owned at least three buildings —

not one of them in the village. Her engagement

to Tobi, son of a retired oil minister, was

announced with champagne and a choir from St.

Mark’s Cathedral. The whole of Surulere buzzed:

this was Retro Nigeria — where diesel fumes

smelled like destiny, and your worth was

measured in how many generators you kept running.

Three days before the wedding, Eunice began

sleeping with her eyes open. She danced at

midnight in the compound, singing Yoruba

lullabies backwards. She ate raw yam and called

the family goat “my beloved.” The pastor’s

daughter prayed over her. The priest anointed

her with palm oil. The spirit only laughed — a

sound like a broken kerosene stove.

Enter Mama Ayo, the last Traditional Healer in

IjebuOde who still wore her beads under her

Ankara. She didn’t come with incense. She came

with a radio playing Fela and a sack of

groundnuts. “This one,” she said, pointing at

Eunice, “is not possessed. She is offended.”

The spirit, it turned out, was not a demon — but

the ghost of Oba Oluwa, a 1970s chief whose wife

was stolen by a man who bought her with oil

money. He’d died cursing the day money replaced

respect. For decades, he haunted only those who

mocked tradition like it was a joke on TikTok.

Eunice, in her Lagos arrogance, had laughed at

his name during a family dinner — called him “a

man who still used cowrie shells as earrings.”

Mama Ayo set the ritual not in a shrine, but at

the wedding venue. She made Eunice wear the

chief’s old cap. She made Tobi kneel and serve

pap with his bare hands. She played the spirit’s

favorite song — “Water No Get Enemy” — full

blast on the DJ’s system. Then she handed Eunice

a bottle of local gin.

“Talk to him,” Mama Ayo said.

Eunice took a sip. “Oga Oluwa,” she said, voice

thick with Pidgin, “you no dey die for this kind

nonsense. You dey cry for a wife who no fit even

cook beans? We now have WhatsApp. We have Naira.

We have… giggle… airconditioning. You no fit

compete with this.”

The spirit stopped moving. The candles went out.

The goat bleated once.

Then — laughter. Real, deep, shaking laughter

from the rafters. Not angry. Not evil. Just…

tired.

The ghost left not with smoke or screams — but

with a sigh that smelled like old diesel and

dried okra. The next morning, Eunice woke up

eating akara and asking Tobi to call his father:

“Tell him I want to see the compound. And I want

to learn how to make puffpuff without

electricity.”

Mama Ayo sold her beads. Bought a small shop in

Oshodi. Now she runs “Spiritual Consult +

PuffPuff Bar.” Her sign reads: “If you laugh at

the ancestors, we laugh back — but we feed you

first.”

The wedding happened. Tobi’s father paid for the

generator. Eunice wore the cap. And every guest

who laughed at the ritual? They got free

puffpuff.

The curse broke not by force. But because the

spirit, after 40 years, finally met someone who

thought its pain was ridiculous.

And in Retro Nigeria — where oil made men forget

their roots — sometimes the only thing that

could fix the world was a woman who refused to

take it seriously.