CHAPTER 1: THEY BURIED ME ALIVE
I was alive the day my family buried me.
(Author's thought: And no, I didn't get a funeral selfie.)
I know this because I was standing behind the mango tree at the edge of the village, watching my mother cry like her heart had been ripped out with bare hands.
People say grief is loud.
They lie.
(Author's thought: Real grief? It's quieter than a WhatsApp notification at 2 AM.)
The casket in front of the church was polished, expensive, and very empty. My name was written boldly on it, carved into wood like a final insult.
No body. No viewing. Just faith and fear doing the rest.
(Author's thought: Apparently, paperwork can kill better than guns.)
"They said she died in the city," someone whispered.
"They said armed robbers attacked the bus on the Benin–Asaba road."
"They said nobody survived."
Nobody survived. Except me.
My fingers dug into the bark of the mango tree as the pastor raised his voice.
"Dust to dust—"
I wanted to run forward.
I wanted to scream, Mama, it's me.
I wanted to tear the lie apart with my voice.
But my legs refused to move.
Because three weeks earlier, my uncle had sat me down in his living room, poured tea he never drank, and said calmly—like we were discussing the weather:
"You have seen too much. And people who see too much don't live long."
(Author's thought: I should've asked him if ghosts count.)
That was the day I learned my father's death five years ago wasn't an accident.
That was the day I learned the land my family had been fighting over wasn't soaked in history alone.
It was soaked in blood.
I had overheard a phone call I was never meant to hear.
I had touched documents I was never meant to see.
I had connected names I was never meant to connect.
So they killed me.
Not with a weapon.
With paperwork.
(Author's thought: Fun fact—bureaucracy is lethal.)
They paid the police.
They paid the hospital.
They paid the church.
They erased me legally.
"If you want the rest of your children to live," my mother was told, "mourn this one quietly."
She obeyed.
At the grave, my younger brother collapsed, screaming my name.
My fiancé dropped to his knees, shaking, blaming himself for insisting I travel that week.
And that was when the truth hit me—cold and sharp:
The people who loved me believed I was dead.
The people who wanted me dead knew I was alive.
That is how you become a ghost.
As the final prayer was said and the coffin lowered into the ground, I understood something terrifying.
The version of me they buried—the trusting one, the obedient one, the family-first one—
She was truly dead.
And the woman standing behind the mango tree?
She had just been born.
(Author's thought: Readers, buckle up. The new me is dangerous.)
End of Chapter 1 – Add to Library if you're ready for the truth.