A Collection of Short Stories

Eketi Ette
Behind The Scene
Be careful how you weep for the dead, for you do not know who dug his grave with his own
hands
—An Ikot Ntefon Saying
It was a balmy Saturday afternoon when Uko died. There was scarcely anyone who did
not grieve for his death. The men shook their heads, patted his father on the back and
whispered words of comfort. The women wailed and beat their chests with both hands,
cursing death and its theft of one of humanity’s finest.
“Ete, song idem. Be strong,” they said, with countenances that belied the platitudes they
offered. The man is approaching his sixties; how could he be strong? He’d just lost his only
child.
Ete Ikpa nodded as each sympathizer came forward. His face bore his grief, but buried in
his heart where no one could see, was a fury swelling like the evening tide on the banks of
the Calabar River.
“He died without even having eaten his evening meal,” he ground out angrily.
“Ete, kuyak ado ufuna. Don’t let it worry you. Whether he ate or not, he is now with God,” a
woman to his left said in a gentle voice. Ete Ikpa’s ears perked up at her voice and his foot
stilled. Maria Akpan—he hadn’t heard or seen her come in. She lived five houses away and
sold fabrics at Udua Nkim, the local market where he also plied his wares. Their eyes met
and held for two seconds, before his withdrew his gaze and began to gnash his teeth.
*****
Maria Akpan busied herself with preparing the evening meal, moiling over the rickety stove.
She poked at the contraption, adjusting the inner metal chamber, in a bid to reduce the
fumes it was coughing up.
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