💔 “The Man Who Attended His Own Funeral” — Episode 1: A Widow’s Nightmare Begins

By the time the police knocked on my door, my life as I knew it was already over — or so I thought. They said my husband had died in a fatal accident, that his body was burnt beyond recognition. But the next morning, his ATM card withdrew five million naira. And that was the moment I realized: something was deeply, terribly wrong.

🌙 The Night Everything Fell Apart

If anyone had told me that my husband, Chinedu, would die before daybreak, I would have slapped them for saying nonsense. The man who left this house on Friday evening was very much alive — fresh haircut, ironed shirt, even a smile that promised suya on his way back home. We had argued about little things that morning — how he always forgot to close the bathroom tap, how he left his socks everywhere — but by evening, everything was fine. He kissed me goodbye and waved at the children as he walked out the door.

By midnight, everything had changed.

The knock came sharp and cold, cutting through the silence of the night like a knife. I opened the door and was met with a blinding torchlight. Two policemen stood there: one in bathroom slippers, the other holding a small brown envelope.

“Madam, are you Mrs. Ngozi Okafor?”

I nodded, my heart already sinking before the words even came.

“There was a fatal accident along Umuahia Express. A Toyota Camry caught fire. We found your husband’s phone and ID card in the car. We are sorry, ma.”

🖤 A Widow Before Dawn

My legs didn’t just shake — they disappeared. Neighbors later told me I collapsed like someone pushed me from a two-story building. One moment I was standing, the next, my wrapper was on the floor, and Mama Peace, our neighbor, was fanning my face with an old newspaper. Within minutes, the whole compound was awake. Some rushed to hold me. Others came to confirm the news for themselves. But the one who hurt me the most was Obinna, my husband’s younger brother, who didn’t even wait for my tears to dry before asking:

“So, how do we go about the burial? Should we move the body to the village or leave it here in town?”

I stared at him, numb. My husband was barely dead, and already they were making burial plans.

🔥 The Body That Couldn’t Be Recognized

By morning, the police report came in. The car was completely burnt. They said the body inside was beyond recognition, but the phone, the ID card, and the documents — all of which belonged to Chinedu — were in the wreckage. The authorities said they’d release the remains after police clearance. What could I say? Who was I to argue with a piece of charcoal that used to be my husband? Who was I to question the uniformed men holding the files?

By afternoon, the news had spread like wildfire. Church members called. His shop boys wept. Even the akara sellers by the junction whispered about how Chinedu had withdrawn five million naira just last week.

“Where is the money?” one of them asked.

I wanted to scream at her, but my mouth was dry and bitter like paracetamol. Where was the money, indeed?

⚰️ A Coffin and a Thousand Questions

That evening, they brought the coffin for the wake. White paint. Cheap wood. Smelling of fresh polish. I sat in a corner, my wrapper tied carelessly around my waist, watching them carry it into the sitting room as if it were a bag of rice. People came with plastic chairs and lanterns. Some cried. Others calculated.

I stared at that box for hours. Was my husband really inside it? Or had they buried someone else’s father and brought me the receipt?

I remembered the man who left home that evening. He had plans. He had laughter in his eyes. He promised me suya. And yet, the man inside that coffin — if there even was one — had no face, no name, no proof of existence except a burnt ID card and a story that didn’t add up.

💳 The Transaction That Changed Everything

I might have accepted it — the accident, the ashes, the coffin — if not for what happened the next morning.

As I sat by the window staring into space, my phone buzzed. It was a message from the bank:

“Debit Alert: ₦5,000,000 withdrawn from your joint account at 8:12 a.m.”

I froze.

Chinedu was dead. Charred beyond recognition. His funeral was tomorrow. And yet, his ATM card — the same one that was supposedly burnt with him — had just withdrawn five million naira from an ATM across town.

My heart stopped. My breath caught. For a moment, the room spun. All the tears, all the condolences, all the burial arrangements — none of it made sense anymore.

If Chinedu was dead… who withdrew that money?

🧩 A Puzzle Too Strange to Ignore

I didn’t tell anyone — not the police, not Obinna, not even Mama Peace. I just sat there, staring at my phone, reading and rereading the alert like it might change if I blinked hard enough. The questions wouldn’t stop screaming in my head.

Was he really in that car?
Was he really dead?
Or did my husband stage the whole thing — the fire, the accident, even the “corpse” — to disappear with the money?

The police said the body was burnt beyond recognition. The documents were intact. The phone was in the car. But a phone and an ID are not a man. And an ATM card doesn’t move by itself.

Somewhere out there, alive or dead, Chinedu knew something I didn’t. And I was going to find out.

📜 To Be Continued…

By the time the sun set on Sunday, the coffin was sealed and the funeral date fixed. People said I was lucky the body was recovered at all. But luck had nothing to do with it. I had a feeling — deep, gnawing, undeniable — that my husband’s story was far from over.

And I was right.

👉 To be continued in Episode 2: “The Man Who Attended His Own Funeral.”

Where was Chinedu? Who withdrew the money? And why did he disappear the night the fire burned everything but the truth?

The answers are closer than anyone thinks…