glint, Short Fiction

Funsho Olododo

 

If you look beyond the black noise of ceremonies of burial, he would be knee-deep in nearby headstones, staring on in dead-eared silence and chewing on boli & epa. He’s a slim man, one would call him thin until they saw him move – which he barely did. He often stands until the coffins key into the grave and are covered in tears and siftings of red soil, moist humus and carpets of grass. Then, he is gone. One moment, there is a man in a black buba and sokoto with a grey moustache and red cap looking on at the grieved with clear eyes, the next, he is gone.

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