The Last Wish

I recently returned from the burial ceremony of my favourite aunty and I am yet to recover from everything that happened. If I had not witnessed it myself, I would have dismissed it as fiction.

My aunt, Magdalene, was the youngest and only surviving sister of my late mother. As the only two daughters of their mother, they were very close. Sadly, my mother died at a young age. Aunty Maggi, as we fondly called her, stepped in and became a mother to us. She carried that responsibility with grace until her death. She showed up for everything—school events, weddings, childbirths, no matter the distance. Even though she lived in the eastern part of the country while we lived in Lagos, she made sure the bond between us and her children remained strong.

However, we noticed something strange. Our cousins always preferred to visit us in Lagos and strongly resisted whenever we suggested going to Enugu. One holiday, we insisted on visiting them. That decision changed everything. It was the first and last time we went.

That visit opened our eyes to what Aunty Maggi was enduring. She always appeared cheerful, always smiling but beneath that was deep pain. She was married to a very difficult man. He never beat her but he was extremely abusive. He constantly insulted her, called her unprintable names and humiliated her in front of others. He treated his children harshly and showed us no kindness during our stay. His hostility made the environment unbearable, and we cut our visit short and never returned.

As we grew older, we understood more. He was an absent husband and father.. emotionally distant and unfaithful. He openly chased younger women even within their church and made inappropriate advances toward his daughters’ friends. Because he was a major financier in the church, no one challenged him. Meanwhile, Aunty Maggi continued to serve as a devoted Christian leader, silently enduring everything.

His disregard for her was shocking. He disrespected her openly. Her own best friend betrayed her by borrowing her clothes and wearing them on dates with her husband. Still, Aunty Maggi refused to leave the marriage because of what people would say.

After years of enduring this, she suffered a heart attack and later a stroke. Her first son brought her to Lagos for treatment and ensured she received the best care he could afford. But the damage had been done. One day, struggling to speak, she gave clear instructions: if she died, she should be buried in Lagos within a week. Her body must never be taken to her husband’s home. She also stated firmly that her husband must not see her corpse or attend her funeral, or there would be consequences.

She died the next day.

We were heartbroken. As preparations began, her first son shared her wishes with the elders but they refused. They insisted she deserved a befitting burial because she was a respected woman who had touched many lives. They overruled him and he reluctantly agreed.

A month later, all arrangements were complete and the journey began. At the morgue, one of the attendants casually remarked that her face looked different. It looked angry. We ignored it.

On the way to the east, the hearse broke down several times. An elderly man who was travelling in his own car stopped. He asked what was going on and we told him. He came down, placed his hand on the vehicle, said a few words and asked us to continue. After that, the journey became smooth. Everyone found it strange but said nothing.

When we arrived in Enugu, the burial activities began. It was meant to be a three-day event. On the first day, heavy rain fell from morning till evening. The ceremony could not hold because people could not attend. By evening, the rain reduced and a small service of songs was held. Then we discovered that the food prepared for guests had gone bad. Everything seemed to be going wrong.

The next day, we took her body from the morgue to her paternal home for final respects. The casket was brought out of the hearse and her children danced around it with friends and family. There was music and brief moments of celebration as people paid their last respects. After that, we proceeded to her husband’s house. When we arrived, the trunk of the hearse refused to open. The elders poured libation and the priests said prayers but the trunk would not budge. After several failed attempts, the elders decided we should move to the cemetery. As soon as we arrived there, the trunk opened with just one touch. It was clear she did not want to be taken to her husband’s house, just as she had warned.

The funeral service was completed, though not without challenges. Afterwards, the reception began. The music was playing, food was served and people were enjoying themselves.

Suddenly, a strong wind started to blow. It became violent within moments. The canopy covering the live band was uprooted and thrown onto the table where her husband and his friends were seated. Panic broke out. People ran in all directions. Her husband was badly injured. Another canopy was lifted and thrown onto the cars belonging to him and her first son. It was clear something was wrong. It felt like Aunty Maggi was expressing her anger. Her son should have obeyed her final wishes.

Later that evening, an elderly man came to the house. No one knew him. He said their mother was very angry and not she was not done. He advised them to cancel the next day’s plans and go to the graveside to beg her. They listened.
Early the next morning, we all went to the cemetery. What we saw shocked us. The sand covering her grave had been dug out. The security guards reported hearing strange sounds from the casket.

The elders ordered that the casket be opened. When it was opened, her face looked visibly angry. Her children began to beg her. They apologised for not honouring her wishes and pleaded with her to rest in peace.

As they spoke, the wind began to rise again. Then they started singing her favourite hymns and songs. Gradually, calm returned. The wind stopped. Then we heard a distinct click sound, like something being locked inside the grave. Everything became still.

They believed she had accepted their apology. The grave was covered properly, and we left in silence.

As the days went by, I realised that the old man who had met us on the way to Enugu and touched the hearse was the same man who had come to the house to warn us that Aunty Maggi was angry and needed to be begged. It was frightening. It was unbelievable. And if I had not been there, I would never have believed it.

One lesson stayed with me: never take lightly the wishes of a dying person.