My sister lived near the graveyard. My sister’s compound shared walls with the massive resting place of a thousand bones. It was a children’s cemetery but my sister said that occasionally some unclaimed corpse, perhaps a lunatic or a leper, was buried there. If you peeped over the wall you would see the small cemented portions, given shady covers by dry overgrown weeds.

Peeping into the graveyard was a daily comic feast for me. The epitaphs on the graves always pressed me to a throaty release of mirth. This one was my favourite:

Death of BaT: 7th seTemBer 2oo6
Death of DieD: 4st maTcH 2oo9
We LoVEs u
BuT GoD most LoVE u

My sister didn’t like me peeping over the graves. She said dead people needed to be respected and allowed their privacy. Dead people don’t care, I would laugh at my sister. Although I was four years her junior I teased her a lot. She never rebuked me; she would smile and call me Prof.

It happened last Friday. My sister, the husband and their kids left for a wedding in Kaduna to return Monday. I had the whole house to myself. My brother-in-law thought I would be afraid to stay here alone and suggested I go stay with his parents. The thought of living with grey-haired people with insatiable domestic requests didn’t appeal to me. I said no, I would stay here. The abundance of space, food and electronic pleasures sent my blood racing with warmth.

That night I sat on the sofa with my bony legs on the table, a plate of chicken soup at this elbow and a bottle of stout at the other. A pop music video was blasting before me, deafening everybody in one-hundred miles ambit. Both the fan and air-conditioner were on. It was good to be alive. ASUU Strike wasn’t a death sentence after all!

At a little past mid-night I made for the toilet. The door was surprisingly locked, or was I drunk? A kick at the door would confirm it. As I shifted back and lifted my leg up, I heard a tiny voice of a three or four year old: ‘Please disturb me not; don’t you know that dead people need their privacy?’

My head swelled like a giant balloon, inflated with hot air. I ran to the nearby kitchen door. It was also locked. I kicked it. It didn’t open. Then I heard, another little child’s voice, ‘Who is there? Don’t you know that dead people need food?’

‘NO!’ I shouted and ran full speed out of the passage to the door leading into the compound. I must have smashed Usain Bolt’s record in my dash. At the door, I heard knocking. ‘Thank God.’ I sighed, someone was around.

‘Open the door,’ chorused a dozen little voices, ‘outside is cold; don’t you know that dead people need warmth.’

I don’t know which one happened first, the urine bursting from my bladder or my falling into a faint.


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19 thoughts on “PRIVACY

  1. Sencen Manyaya

    Hahaaaa, u ddnt faint Wiki, u r dead. Humour @ its best, thank u. (death of bat, death of died, we loves u), u killed me o


  2. Yemie

    ROTFLMAO! Jeez Kingsley, who the heck are you?! I’ll bet hanging out with the geriatrics, the ones you fondly refer to as ‘grey-haired people with insatiable domestic requests’ appeals a whole lot more to you now, doesn’t it?! Plus, you couldn’t possibly have gotten drunk on just one bottle of Stout to have ‘imagined’ this occurrence could you now?! Hilarity at its bestest, this sizzles! LOL


    • Kingsley

      Half a glass of stout can turn some people into high chiefs. People who are not too diffrent from me. But I didn’t imagine this things, they are real. But if you know the kind of grey-haired wahala some people can cause, you may risk the little chorus at mid-night. Thanks, Yemie for your solid support to my art


  3. Adewoyin Joseph

    Placed in your shoes, I’ll do the two concurrently. I’ll faint at the tug of urine then let it all out in an unrestricted turbulence while I’m out.

    They can all have my privacy while I’m at it.



  4. Ifunanya

    Ha! okay, continue… lol
    First off, if this really happened, no need for if I were the one,
    But I’ve gotta give it to you, you are GOOD. Daalu


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