Dead Man's Tale & Other Stories

By Charlotte Ndiribe

Dead Man's Tale & Other Stories is a collection of short thrilling stories. The strange events that are conveyed in each story will compel you to ask what really transpired. They will arouse your curiosity and send chills down your spine … for you thought you knew all things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665514477

Book preview

DEAD MAN’S TALE

&

OTHER STORIES

CHARLOTTE NDIRIBE

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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©

2021 Charlotte Ndiribe. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/23/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1448-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1447-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021901359

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 The Orange Tree

Chapter 2 The Widow’s Might

Chapter 3 Dead Man’s Tale

Chapter 4 Lady of the Night

Chapter 5 Forbidden Apple

Chapter 6 Flutes and Ladders

Chapter 7 Ghost of an Ex-slave

Chapter 8 Cletus Discordia

Chapter 9 Rwandan Bits and Pieces

Chapter 10 Hanging Shirt

Chapter 11 Chocolate of Death

Chapter 12 Seer My Future

Chapter 13 Waiting to Die

Chapter 14 Excavation Mine and Yours

Chapter 15 Merchants of Death

Chapter 16 The August Visitor

Chapter 17 The Season of Death

Chapter 18 Death by the Waves

Chapter 19 Old People’s Groove

Chapter 20 The Death of Deaths

Chapter 21 People of the Scorpion

Chapter 22 Twisted Dreams

Chapter 23 The Pan

Chapter 24 Conspiracy Roost

Chapter 25 The Elevator

The Author

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1

THE ORANGE TREE

I n the middle of my community, stood this unusually large and strangely formed Citrus . It seemed to have a face of its own and appeared to pierce you with dagger-like stares whenever you turned your back to it. This foreboding kept people, strangely, looking back at the tree as they moved away from it.

Approaching it was no easier. It had an eerie chill that blew cold on you, as it seemed to pull you to stand head to toe with it. When you were that close to it, it appeared to tell you things – secrets of the past that no one had ever shared – dead or living. Again, this foreboding got people standing strangely in unusual proximity, gazing at the tree transfixed. Sometimes, they had their ears glued to the trunk of the tree, from which they claimed to hear voices in conversation.

The older one got in the village, the more they grew accustomed to these peculiarities of the tree, and outgrew them. For the tree with its numerous bottled voices never spoke to anyone – or so we thought.

In fact, visitors to the village were easily recognizable as they stood gazing furtively at the tree, or had an ear hard pressed against the tree trunk. Sometimes, it called for amusement. Other times, you advised them to hurry on their paths before dusk. It must have been a service the tree rendered to warn us of intruders.

With all of these, there was one more big thing. It made us all wait, wait as we did when it was time for the tree to bring forth. It brought forth bright orange fruits, but as it seemed, not without a travail. It telepathically told all both near and grown that it was in labor. That her juicy ripened children were in the womb of formation. So that almost instinctively, we all knew when it will bear fruits. This was strange.

The villagers, some of the older mothers, cared for the tree during this period by giving it water and scraps of food. As it was wont to be, this tree took it all up, for there was not a trace of ‘gift’ left on the ground by the following morning.

When the foreign settlers came, they emerged in our community on the brink of dawn. They were sparkling white brandishing the gospel of hope, fear and encouragement. It seemed they had a strange solitude to deliver these, as they cajoled our souls to theirs.

We seemed to be converted, some of us into mystic beings. As perniciously, we stole our peoplehood and gave it to them, revealing secrets that were later used to decapitate us. The marauders among us were recognizable in their brown khaki shorts, starched shirts, long white stockings, and Freddie Rogers boots. They used their erstwhile tool of encouragement to ‘encourage’ us to abandon our folklore place at the foot of the mother orange tree, and move to the now erected bricks of sand and mortar they called ‘Formation’. Prior to this time, I had no idea I was not yet formed.

We murmured ever increasingly in our stead. We were being intruded. It was the error of some ancient custom that mandated us to show kindness and acceptance to sojourners, until they departed. But, these ones apparently had no intentions of ever leaving. Rather, they made an unpardonable caricature of our brothers turned marauders. For it was appalling to see how they made them wear strange clothes, and act and talk in their strange dialect. We were resolved. They had to go! But, who knew all this time, the orange tree was watching.

At the start of the new moon season, the other trees in the community would bloom except the orange tree. It was the bane of attraction for those new dwellers as they searched out defective trees to pull down. It was an excuse for the construction of something they would call residential or formation, or it was complicated and secret.

They searched through the community for a tree to fall, for a reason to fall. As if by some insidious conspiratorial network, all the trees at this time, strangely were in bloom. They prospered and stood strong refusing to be bulldozed. The shiny men were angst.

But sir, our majesty’s visit draws near and we have to rapidly build her a place, complained one of the men. This is not working. We need to do something fast and pragmatic sir. He said as he continued to address his superior. Looking up from his tobacco pipe he stared at his henchy social steward and asked, What do you think? The tree sir. The big community square tree, must go down. He replied sternly.

Are you out of your mind? his superior barked. He was suddenly awoken to the harsh reality of urgent challenges. That tree is the nerve center of this community! That is where these villagers gather every night…What? They even pray to the damn thing! He finished with a wave of hand.

That is the very reason sir, it must be cut down. We have hardly made any progress with converting these people’s minds from barbarism, because of their worship of that tree, He paused and continued Have you seen how ugly and horribly frightening it looks? He forges on seeing the impact My lord, the queen would soon be here. We cannot present her a community with half-naked men and women who still jump about and talk like they live off the bark of trees. He paused again for emphasis, If we tear down that tree, with or without their permission, they would revolt. But, this community would be gainfully liberated, forever.

The master took his time and then replied, They would revolt, so we must tread with caution. We must first tell their chief through our new mercenaries. They can try to convince him better in their own language. We could lure him with the promise of a new grand palace… You make the sketch at once, and bring me three of the locals. Yes sir! He half-bowed excitedly and left.

When news of this monstrous intent got to the village chief and elders, most of them rent their clothes. They burned the lower parts of their toga and put the ashes on their heads. Yet, the real people who were greatly alarmed by this news were the women, particularly the older women who fed and communed with the tree, regularly. They marched to sit and weep by the tree. Some rolled on the ground around the orange tree, imploring it to come to their aid. For those shiny men were fully armed and dangerous.

On the night before the day the tree was to be cut down, a strange chilly wind went through the village, forcing the villagers to stay indoors. The cold wind blew and blew for hours. Indoors, the villagers cheered for they consoled themselves that the tree had come alive in its defense. My grandmother told of a similar event that was told to her by her great grandmother of an incident that happened in several years past, when the tree defended the community from a great warlord in the neighboring community.

We don’t know for sure what happened that night. We know we will never know, for sure. But, by the next day, all the white brandishing troopers who had made ready weapons to cut down our beloved orange tree had disappeared. It was as if they had vanished into thin air, or it is better to say - into cold air. The type and strange kind of cold wind that only blew directly from the orange tree.

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2

THE WIDOW’S MIGHT

O pposite Uselu Market in Benin city, there was a widow’s shop that hustled and bustled with the vibrancy of passers-by and transporters. All sorts of goods seemed to be stocked within, and tumbled over themselves in numerous quantities on the store shelves. For the customers, whatever item they asked for readily appeared on the shelf amiably seated among many other goods.

School children stormed the shop every day after school to purchase their mouthful of candies and cookies. They haggled and quarreled as they tried to partition their meagre resources with all fairness. There were two salesgirls in the shop. They were always kept on their toes until