What Happened to Aunty Ireju?

I heard Daddy’s phone ring. He was in the sitting room watching the news, so I moved into his room where the phone laid, vibrating loudly on the bed. It was one of those rare evenings when everywhere felt too calm.

I picked the phone and handed it over to him.
He clicked on the answer prompt.
“Hello, sis,” Daddy said. Then, his expression changed. “Wait, why are you crying?”
There was silence from our end, only his voice filled the entire room.
“What?!” he suddenly shouted, sitting upright. “When did this happen?”
The voice on the other end kept speaking, and I could hear the cracks of sorrow even though I couldn't hear the words she was uttering.
Finally, Daddy dropped the phone on his lap with trembling hands. The silence in the room was prolonged for a while.
I instantly felt my heart tighten.

It was Aunty Ann, Daddy’s elder sister. And unlike her, she had brought bad news.
“Papa is gone,” Daddy finally said with a shaky voice. “He passed away this evening.”

The air left my chest. Papa is my father’s father, my favorite storyteller and the only grandparent I really knew. I was in my final year of secondary school, old enough to understand what death actually meant. And it really hurt.

Preparations for the burial began almost immediately.
Despite the sadness, there was something oddly joyful about the way everyone came together to make it a reality. We called it a celebration of life. After all, Papa had lived well and long and had planted seeds of love in every one of us.
The compound buzzed with so many activities. Aunties from far and near trooped in, cousins I hadn’t seen in years, men in wrappers holding long staffs and women tying gele as if they slept with it on. Papa was indeed loved, and his send-forth was going to reflect that.

During one of the family meetings, someone asked the question that made the room go so silent:
“Is Ireju not coming?”

The stillness that followed was deeper than anything I had felt since Papa’s passing.
Then Uncle Godwin scoffed. “Here we are talking about possibilities and you're here mentioning something so impossible.”

They all laughed, but not actually out of humor. It was a dry, painful laughter showing the absence of hope.
Aunty Ireju was Papa’s second daughter and Daddy’s immediate younger sister. Years ago, the entire family had pulled every string, scraping every pocket to send her to America to study. It was her life long dream. And they gave it to her as their gift.
And then, silence followed.
She just disappeared. There were no calls, she visited no one and messaged no one too during birthdays or family crises.
Not even when Grandma, her own mother was buried. She never returned or even sent her regards.

So, over time, everyone gave up.
“If Ireju ever comes back,” they always said, “then pigs must have started flying.”

On the day of the burial, the sun burned so high, as if it was paying its own tribute. The choir sang hymns, the pastor preached and people sobbed in corners. Some even wailed loudly. When the ceremony ended, the pastor raised his hands.
“And now we would proceed to the burial place to lay Papa to rest.”

A voice that sounded so strange and yet familiar, sliced through the air:
“Are you all going to lay my father to rest without me?”

Everyone turned their heads in sharp waves.
There, she was, standing by the palm tree near the gate. We could see a slim woman in a flowing blue dress. Her hair was cut short, and she held a small bouquet of white lilies.
It was definitely her, Aunty Ireju.
She looked older, a little leaner than I remembered but it was unmistakably her.

There were gasps, murmurs and stares here and there.
Some persons covered their mouths while others looked away like she never existed. The air felt choked but I felt this subtle sense of relief.

No one said a word. It was as if everyone understood the assignment: Act normal till everything is over.
We all stayed calm and composed as if we hadn’t just witnessed the miraculous arrival of the family ghost.

Later that evening, beside the guava tree in the compound, Daddy called a family meeting. Everyone was there. And when he spoke, his voice was firm but not laced with anger.

“Ireju,” he said, “who offended you? What really happened?”

She bowed her head for a long moment before opening up to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she began, her voice was low and raspy. “I just… I didn’t want to disappoint anyone,” she said. Everyone was dumbstruck.
“I went through so many struggles in America. Things didn’t just go as I had planned. I didn’t get the kind of job I hoped for and I had to live from hand to mouth. I was so ashamed of myself. You all did so much for me, and I couldn’t even return the favor. I didn’t just want to be a burden; at least not again.”
She paused to wipe her eyes.
“I should have reached out, at least try to come home; especially for Mama. But the shame was just too much. And still, when Papa died… you still told me. Even after everything, not minding if I was going to show up or not.”

Daddy looked at her with his almost teary eyes.
“Today is all about Papa. He lived well and he wanted peace among his children. We will not turn his burial into a battlefield.”

Everyone nodded in silent agreement. Uncle Godwin pulled her in for a hug and of course, our ever-emotional Aunty Ann wiped her tears with her wrapper.

That night, laughter returned to the compound. Plates clattered, small children ran here and there and people remembered the good times.
Papa must have been smiling from the heavens.
As for us, we learned that yeah maybe sometimes pigs do fly.

All images are mine