People say that ghosts do not exist.
I had always been one of those who waved off such stories as the crazy imagination of those who maybe were suffering from malaria or boredom. That is, of course, until the day that it happened to me.
I had decided to go to the mall that morning to buy myself a new pair of sneakers. My old one had finally given up and the gaping hole through which my big toe protruded had become enough cause of embarrassment. I quickly spotted the Sports Store across the threshold, almost as soon as I entered the mall. I had been there a few times before, to feast on the various designs that were laid out right across the shelving. Each one beckoning to me to come take them home. Ah, sneakers! They had always been my weakness. I crossed the magnificent threshold and got to the door of the Sports Store in a few minutes. As I approached, the store’s glass doors slid open to welcome me in.
I took a quick look around the store. Salespeople were moving all around busy attending to customers. In the corner, a plump salesgirl was trying to convince a group of boys to pick her sample. It was obvious that she hadn’t realized they were making fun of her. A prettier girl was quietly folding clothes into a neat pile and eyed me oddly as I walked in.
A cool breeze gently stroked my face as I walked in and the familiar feeling that I always felt when I entered a world of my own came over me. It was a world where I was always in charge. A world where my problems disappeared and disappointments could only be measured by the size of my wallet. I poked around every corner of the sneakers section, searching for the one item I wanted.
Finally, after through the section and examining every sole, I thought I had found the perfect pair of sneakers. It was at that moment that I heard it. A shrill voice that rent out through the air like a sharp knife. I straightened up immediately when I heard it.
I looked about the store, but no one else seemed to notice. The voice sounded so close, so familiar, and yet it sent shivers down my spine. I shook my head and shuddered, thinking that perhaps I was mistaken. Then I looked up to find the pale ghostly face of my dead best friend, Folusho, staring right back at me.
“Wilson, I need your help.” It said to me, as if we were carrying on a conversation from when we had last been together on the day that he had died.
My heartbeat quickened. The hairs on my arms stood up. An unwitting mix of fear and confusion enveloped me as I gasped. I moved back instinctively, not noticing that the sneakers in my hands had dropped onto the floor with a thud.
“Folusho, is that you?” I whispered incredulously. There was a lump in my throat. I wondered if I was dreaming, but the pain I felt as I pinched my arm confirmed that I was not. “Folusho, are you not dead?” I mumbled, “F..Folusho?”
At that very moment, it seemed that time had stopped, and I had entered a place of great personal fear that made it such that my heart, which yet was beating so loudly, had stopped. Aren’t the dead supposed to be dead? Several thoughts reeled in the hollow of my mind, emptying my brain of every logical reasoning. I rubbed my eyes for a few seconds, wondering if my mind was seeing things that weren’t real. I didn’t do drugs, did I? At least not anymore.
But there he was, standing rooted in front of me with his legs slightly apart and his hands clenched into a fist. He had a gaping hole in his left eye. Yes, a round hole like a doughnut ring. Whenever he squinted and twitched his right eye, crimson-like liquid streamed down before his left eye. Folusho still had on the football jersey he had worn the day he had been shot by the bloodthirsty police officer.
“What do you want, Folusho?” I asked, my voice trembling. It was cold about me and at that moment I could swear that I could see sweat fall ever so slowly onto the floor. I noticed a sweat bead fall, just barely missing the sneaker on the floor.
“Wilson, I cannot rest,” Folusho said to me, “I cannot rest while those who did this to me go about like nothing has happened.” I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt calmer when he spoke. He had been my friend ever since we had been at primary school together, and I missed him dearly.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, gathering courage as I looked around to see if there was anyone else who could see Folusho just the way I was seeing him.
As the rivulets of sweat trickled down my face despite the full air-conditioning in the store, I brought out my phone and pretended to be on a call. It was the one thing and only thing I could think about to stop me from looking like a fool.
“Wilson, you have to avenge my death! Avenge me! Avenge me! Avenge me!” Folusho screamed.
Surely the entire store heard that. I covered my ears with my hands in horror. A bespectacled middle-aged man with his fingers curled around his walking stick, his back stooped by age, chose that very moment to come in and sit on a white plastic chair, opposite where I stood. He gave me a cursory glance then, stared at me more surreptitiously through his glasses. I pulled my eyes away from his and returned to find my dead friend still there, glaring at me.
“Are you serious now? Do I look like a murderer, Folusho? I can’t even kill a fowl and you know that very well.”
Folusho crossed his arm, feigning bewilderment, creasing the country’s badge emblem that was embossed on his jersey to form a disorganized set of words.
“Do you remember the last Christmas at all?” He asked, “How you almost fainted when I saw you severing the neck of that poor chicken.” He chuckled.
“How I took to my heels while you finished the slaughtering.” I laughed softly in return. “Folusho, how do you now suddenly expect me to develop the courage to avenge your death?” I shouted back with great sadness enveloping my heart. I did not realize how loud I must have been.
The old man who had sat next to me rose to his feet abruptly and hurriedly wobbled away from where I stood with my fists clenched, my head drooped and grief wracked through my whole body. I could only imagine what must have been going through his mind, but given the current circumstance, I would have forgiven him if he had thought me a madman who needed medical attention at the ARO Psychiatric Hospital. I switched my phone to the other ear only as a means of convincing not just the old man but the few others who had now started standing around me that I was not insane.
“Wait, is this how life is on the other side?” I asked, turning from the old man to face my friend.
“What do you mean?” Folusho asked, appearing to clean the streak of blood running through his mouth with the back of his palm.
Could he read my thoughts? Can he feel anything? Do his eyes hurt? How come blood still flows from his eyes since he is a ghost? All these were the questions that now popped into my head and I had wanted to ask. Yet I found myself lost for words.
“Is it that the dead lose all attachment to the physical plane of existence, or why exactly do you turn to the living to avenge your death?” I finally summoned the courage to ask.
“I am not joking here, Wilson,” he replied.
“Alright. So, how would this work? If you think I am going to die for your vengeance mission, then you are mistaken.” I quickly switched the phone to the other ear. Then I noticed that a few people in the store had begun to walk cautiously in my direction and one of them was carrying a big stick. I caught the concerned look of the bespectacled old man who had sauntered towards me.
“My son, are you okay?” He asked.
I shook my head vigorously, then I hurriedly wove my way out of the Sports Store towards the eatery section of the mall.
Folusho’s ghost followed me around like a bad dream.
“So, do you mean you want to possess me as demons do?” I suddenly paused, taking two steps backwards on hearing myself speak like that. I strayed closely to the entrance of one of the many restaurants advertising continental dishes.
“Something like that.” Folusho smiled wryly.
“Never. Not my body. My body is a temple, nothing impure must be found in here.” I retorted.
“So, are you saying I am dirty? Remember we both started the protest that led to my death together. You were my best friend while I was alive. Are you going to watch me wander the earth– not getting the rest that I deserve? You poured sand on my coffin during my burial and with teary eyes, you professed that my killers would not go unpunished. Were those crocodile tears, eh, Wilson, tell me?”
“Shut up, Folusho. Just shut up! They weren’t crocodile tears. That was the first time I cried for you, you idiot.” I snapped at him. “How dare you accuse me of being disloyal?” All this while, I still kept up the on the phone pretense by continuing to speak into my phone.
“If they were real tears, then you would avenge my death. I need to use your body to pay my killers’ eye for an eye. They killed me for no reason, Wilson. It was a peaceful protest, the only weapon that we had was our voice.” Folusho whined sorrowfully.
I gently swore under my breath at the sight of the female security guard walking towards me. It seemed like she was out to get me, this one. She had searched me quite thoroughly when I first entered the mall, going through my backpack and even searching through my laptop, no doubt searching for something incriminating, anything she could use to pin me as a yahoo boy. My initial protestations had fallen on deaf ears which, quite frankly, came as no surprise to me, as after all, I knew that I fell very neatly into their stereotype.
Dreadlocks, check. Backpack, check. Laptop, check. Whatever she was searching for, she was sorely disappointed; what she found in my bag were folders with articles, stories, graphic designs and my pen knife and other tools I used for my art.
“See? I told you I was a writer,” I said, furrowing my brows. She scoffed at me, returning my backpack belatedly. That was the problem with this useless country now, every young guy trying to find something to do in this hell hole of a country was assumed to be “yahoo-yahoo.” That is what the country has reduced us to: lazy youths. Everyone is a suspect before being proven not guilty.
“That security witch is coming towards me, I don’t know why she has been picking on me,” I quickly said to Folusho before making my way into the far left of the eatery.
As I marched on briskly, I saw a plate of leftover food on a table.
“I think I would have to eat a spoon of that food,” I said to Folusho as I moved towards the table with the plate of leftover fried rice with chicken that appeared to have been eaten by what could easily have been assumed to have been a goat masquerading as a human being.
“This does not look nice, but I need to prove that this is my table so they don’t throw me out.” I sat pretending to have ordered the food.
“What is the difference between you and the individual who left the food?” Folusho laughed mockingly.
“You are just mad, that’s simply what you are. It’s not your fault, if not for those damn shoes I wanted, what would I be doing here?” I asked, wondering how long I would have to wait and keep up the theatrics. I looked to the left and to the right, with the phone still clutched to my ear in the forced show of drama.
“She’s almost here, I can help you deter her, and you don’t need to eat the food. What if it’s truly the leftover of a goat or that of someone who was sick? Just give me your body for a few minutes.”
I considered it for a moment, then I turned to Folusho, “Alright. Just for a few minutes.” I emphasized with contempt as I looked again at the plate of food, hopefully for one last time.
Suddenly, a rush of coldness swept through me. I felt as if my head had doubled in size, threatening to crack my skull in two. It was so intense that I could swear my blood was caking-up.
My hands and legs had become numb and immovable, and I started losing consciousness. I felt like something was happening on the inside of me that I had no control over. I screamed out loud yet there was no sound, let alone anyone to come to my rescue.
The female guard was already standing in front of me and the contortion in her face showed that she was also as confused as I was at the way my body was stretching and vibrating.
“Young man, are you waiting for someone?” She asked. I couldn’t respond. I was still voiceless.
“Young man, I asked you. Are you waiting for someone? For a while now, I have observed that you have been wandering around with your phone. For security reasons, I would advise you to step outside to make your calls.” She said,
Still, I didn’t say a word. “Are you deaf? I just asked that you step out!” She was about to drag me from my seat when I suddenly stood up abruptly and looked straight into her eyes. She looked back at me and I watched as her expression changed from disgust to bemusement to bafflement and then to utter fear. She clutched her bosom as she uttered a soft groan and she fled.
“How did you do that? Mehn, that’s cool. But what’s up with the numbness and swelling?” I asked Folusho, feeling the control of my body slowly returning to me.
“It’s a transition phase. A point where your body syncs with my spirit so I can have access to your conscious and subconscious mind.” He replied as he resumed his ghostly state.
I chuckled within myself as I felt strength return to my body. He cocked his head to one side, smiling wryly as he joined me at the table. We both burst out laughing, drawing glances at me yet again. But this time I didn’t care. I just reminded myself how the hell I had become friends with this really crazy, cool but otherwise very dead guy.
Folusho’s parents and mine had both lived in the same compound as co-tenants and also worked at the same government school as co-teachers, which made them excellent friends. This was one thing that forged the friendship bond between Folusho and I. Although he was 2 years older than I was, we had always been close. Folusho was the one who taught me how to talk to girls. I had a crush on a pretty, dark-skinned girl called Gbemisola, but because I was incurably shy, I couldn’t muster the courage to talk to her. I could usually be seen whimpering around like an injured dog whenever I saw her with another guy. After a lifetime of listening to me whine about this girl, he had dragged me to her desk one day and then told her I, Wilson, had a crush on her and would love to take her out on a date. Gbemisola had smiled warmly at me before calling me a sissy, but she had agreed and we eventually dated. Our relationship lasted until the end of graduation.
Folusho and I had both gained admission to the same university, although we were not offered the same course. It was very painful for both of us. We weren’t in the same department in school as we had planned, but we got the same room as roommates, so it was a lose-win situation for us.
The sad incident that took away Folusho’s life started when hostels were constantly being robbed by a group of cult boys who called themselves ‘The Renegades’ They had coined the name based on the several successful operations that they had had against other cult groups in school.
When the students reported their frequent invasions to the school authorities, they had been complacent about it. As a result, some students had taken up the responsibility of protecting themselves by acting as watchmen and vigilantes.
Each street usually had five people on guard with a bonfire. The basic idea was to blow a whistle that had been distributed earlier when anyone noticed any strange movement. That way, everyone would be on alert.
However, despite the valiant attempts at night-watch, The Renegades still carried out their operations smoothly in many parts of the school community. To make matters worse, not only did they steal from their fellow students, they also maimed some as well.
Disenchanted by the development, the student community sent delegates to the police in order to convey their displeasure. Folusho was among the delegates. When they came back and relayed the reply of the police to the rest of us, they couldn’t contain their shock. They had been told to protect themselves with catapults!
Over the years, we have been told that the police were our friends. That they were here to protect us. That they cared about our safety. Blah, blah, blah… But now we wondered if it wasn’t merely lip service. We had seen no reason to believe it was true.
Seeing that the police would not be coming to our aid, we staged a protest–a peaceful one to pressurize the school management into taking decisive action. That these crimes were happening and nothing was being done about it was totally beyond our understanding. Did our lives not matter?
During the protest, we lifted banners above our heads asking if it was a curse to be students of the school or citizens of the country. We formed a barricade at the entrance of the school at about 3:00 a.m. Our intention had been not to allow anyone to enter the school environment at dawn. Not even the Vice-Chancellor. Not until the authorities had agreed to our demands for protection.
At dawn, once senior members of the school management heard about the development, they informed the police, who subsequently arrived in their vans, quicker than we had ever seen them do. In truth, their presence and the circumstances of their arrival infuriated us students even more. We were young; we were bold; we were the future. Where were they when we needed them to protect us? They had done nothing and now they were here, intimidating us during a peaceful protest. Brandishing guns that could have been used against our assailants.
The police forcefully tried to end the protest by dispersing the group with pepper spray and tear gas. There was no one to assist us students, the student union government having been proscribed at the time.
While the police tried to quell the protest, Folusho confronted them in a bid to explain the purpose of the protest. He urged the police to allow us to continue protesting peacefully as was our right, but it fell on deaf ears.
To the students, Folusho became an instant leader, an unelected spokesperson, a hero. From where I stood, I couldn’t help but be proud of my friend as we cheered him on. How short that cheer and the cry of ‘Aluta!’ had lasted.
I, like everyone else, had heard a gunshot as it rang out in the inky dawn. We did not know who or what was shot. All we had done was to take to our heels as pandemonium ensued and screams filled the air.
I had run as fast as my legs could carry me and hidden behind a palm tree. My lungs were filled with air, but I couldn’t breathe. My whole body was riddled with fear. Tears were rolling freely down from my eyes. What if I had died? What if a stray bullet had hit me? What would have happened to all the big dreams I had and how would my poor mother, who had sacrificed everything she had to get me this far, have coped with the grief of loss.
Finally, the gunshots had stopped ringing, and I gingerly crawled out of my hiding place. Some students had been wounded in the mayhem, and they were now all crying. The tears wouldn’t stop running down my face as I furtively took just a few more steps to find Folusho in a pool of blood.
He had been shot in the eye. I felt sick to my stomach as I saw him lying there lifeless. I threw myself on his body and screamed out his name several times, praying and hoping that he would answer but he never did.
Folusho has been my inspiration. Fearless Folusho who led from the front. I remember that he had once told me that he was that way because he was the first child of his parents. He had made a lot of promises to them.
That had been only a few months ago. Now I sat and watched as flies had started to gather around the table with a plate of unfinished rice, which I had not ordered, and staring into the ashen face of my friend.
“What will you do? What is your plan?” I asked him. It was almost evening.
“Listen carefully,” Folusho whispered. So, I leaned nearer and listened as he spoke into my ears.
By 8:30 pm, I was ready. I wore my black Reebok hoodie and a pair of blue denim trousers, with my black Nike sneakers and left the hostel. Ever since the incident, the school had been on strike. But I had decided to stay behind because of my outstanding schoolwork and the constant electricity in the school.
I got to Erika junction by 9 pm and found it exactly as Folusho had described it earlier to me. A nondescript road junction not far from where our campus was, where the police were notorious for fleecing the several Okada bike riders of their daily takings from ferrying passengers across the city. Three policemen stood there with their torch lights darting about in the distance.
They had blocked the junction all around with some tires and sticks. I hid behind a container, looking forward to when Folusho would appear to at least keep me company. I rubbed and slapped my hands, legs, and neck severally to ward off the mosquitoes that came with the night. Where was Folusho? I was already beginning to get impatient when he appeared out of nowhere and smiled strangely at me.
He led me like a puppeteer to the first policeman who was standing beside the van. He was busy smoking a cigarette, shaking his head from side to side to the tune of the music playing from the radio. He hadn’t seen me walk up to him, so he looked startled when I touched him on the shoulder.
The blade of my pen knife entered him so easily that it astonished even me. I am not sure who was more shocked between both of us. He did not utter a sound as I watched him drop to his knee clutching at his torso. I knelt over him as he fell to the ground and looked up into the dark sky. He wore an expression of shock and surprise on his face that made it seem like he was clowning.
“Folusho come and see,” I pointed out. For some strange reason, it seemed funny to me and I had started laughing, as I watched as the blood poured out of him and into the surrounding darkness.
“Folusho come and see,” I kept saying. But Folusho remained quiet.
The police dispatch radio crackled over the car radio in the van for a moment. The voice of a female police dispatcher from their control room came on.
“…he is known to be armed and dangerous”, she was saying,” suspect is a five feet eleven inches tall male student of the university with a diagnosed psychotic condition. Suspect was last reported this evening carrying a rucksack at the city mall and going by the name Wilson. All officers should approach with caution…”
“Hey Folusho! Hey Folusho, they are calling my name on the radio” I screamed incredulously in between fits of laughter, as I spun around looking for him.
But Folusho wasn’t there.
“Folusho? Folusho….?”
Ghost Photo by Tandemxvisuals on Unsplash
Story Originally published by Apex Publishing (UK) on January 5, 2021
Adefemi Fagite is a PhD in English student. His writings have been published on various platforms, including Brittle Paper, Parousia Magazine, The African Writers Review, Apex Publishing, Ebonylife Media, and Oriki Podcast. When he’s not reading or writing, Adefemi enjoys going on long walks, observing nature, and binge-watching movies.
About the Author
