But death did not sever Eze's connection to the living. Three nights after his passing, his spirit materialized in the room of his grandson, Obinna. The moon bathed the room in silvery light, casting elongated shadows on the walls. Obinna, startled yet strangely calm, sat up in bed. There stood Eze, his form translucent, eyes filled with purpose. His voice, though ethereal, carried the weight of truth.
"Obinna," Eze whispered, "I have returned to share a secret—a truth that binds my soul."
Obinna's heart raced. "Grandfather, why have you come back?"
Eze's spectral hand gestured toward the small wooden chest by the window. "Open it, my child. Inside lies the tale of my demise."
Obinna hesitated, then lifted the lid. Nestled within lay a folded parchment, its edges yellowed with age. He unfolded it, and Eze's voice echoed as Obinna read:
In the days before my passing, I sensed treachery. My once-trusted friend, Okeke, harboured envy in his heart. He coveted my position as village elder, my influence over our people. But I dismissed it as mere suspicion.
One evening, Okeke invited me to share palm wine—a tradition among friends. As we sat in his dimly lit hut, he poured the wine into ornate goblets. The aroma was sweet, but my instincts screamed danger.
"Eze," Okeke said, his eyes glinting, "let us toast to our enduring friendship."
I raised the goblet, but before it touched my lips, I glimpsed a shadow—a powdery residue at the bottom. Poison.
"Okeke," I whispered, "why?"
His laughter chilled my soul. "For power, old friend. You stood in my way."
I feigned a cough, spilling the wine onto the floor. Okeke's face twisted in rage, but he masked it with concern.
"Forgive me," he said, "I didn't realize it had soured."
I fled, my heart pounding. That night, I wrote this confession, sealed it, and entrusted it to the chest. I knew my time was short.
Obinna looked up, tears blurring the words. "Grandfather, why didn't you expose Okeke?"
Eze's form wavered. "Fear, my child. Fear for your safety. Okeke is cunning, and I wanted you to live."
"Justice will find its way," Eze said. "You must reveal the truth. Seek the village elders, show them the parchment. Okeke's guilt will unravel."
Obinna nodded. "And you, Grandfather? What awaits you now?"
Eze smiled, fading into the moonlight. "I go where ancestors dwell. But remember, Obinna, our spirits linger for a purpose. Protect our legacy."
And with that, Eze vanished, leaving Obinna with the weight of revelation. The next morning, he gathered the elders, shared the parchment, and Okeke's treachery unravelled like a frayed thread.
Justice prevailed, and Eze's spirit found peace. But in the quiet of nights, when the wind whispered through the forest, Obinna swore he heard his grandfather's voice: "Tell the tale, my child. Tell the tale."
And so, he did—keeping Eze's memory alive, a beacon of truth and courage for generations to come.
