My story....

It's official my blog is moribund!! I'm so sad!!!!! no comments??? why???????????
Anyhow..here is a story I wrote..will be posting in sections till the end..enjoy (to my invisible readers) more sobbing!!!

SEALED GRAVES (COPYRIGHT!!!!! cannot be reproduced...and the rest of the ish)

Mama was rolling on the ground and beating her head in despair. “Di m o! My husband!” she screamed again and again, “Chukwu na mo! Ebe ki no? My God! Where are you”. Mama Caro and Aunty Ezinne, our neighbors, struggled to pull her up, each time she was halfway up she would fall back to the earth screaming “hapu m, tata a ga m anwu! Leave me, today I will die!” Her black blouse and wrapper were cloaked in red earth; the wrinkled skin of her feet a dusty red. Behind her Ikenna and Uzo lowered the wooden casket into the grave that had been dug, Father Anthony stood a few feet away from them clutching his missal to his chest his other arm extended over the casket making the sign of the cross. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead and rays from the sun bounced off his shiny bald head. As I watched them put Papa in the ground, I remembered Ralu telling me that Father Anthony was not godly at all. He said he had seen the collar of his cassock and it had brown streaks of dirt all around it, and Father Anthony could not possibly be godly because Sister Eusebius who taught him Moral Instruction had said that cleanliness is next to godliness.
So I ran, straight at Father Anthony intent on pushing him to the ground and showing everyone that he was not as chaste as the white cassock led them to believe. Let them see him as his white became mud red, as I lunged at him throwing my weight in the direction of his mid torso, open arms and a warm embrace intercepted my flailing arms. He scooped me up and placed my head on his chest, it was then I saw Mama advancing, a tired frown on her face. “Golibe” she called, the way she did when she was exasperated. Underneath her languorous tone I could hear her screaming in a fit of rage “You will not kill me o! Golibe! Mba nu!” like when I broke her vase from England, but this was different Father Anthony should not be praying over Papa’s body, he was ungodly. I looked up from Father Anthony’s chest and there stood Mama, her weary eyes alive with anger. As she tried to take me from his arms, Father Anthony said softly to her in Igbo “Rapu ya, o bu nwatakili, o maro ihe n’eme Leave her alone, she is a child, she doesn’t know what is happening.” So Mama left me in his arms and later he put me down as he shoved the spade into the earth “dust to dust” he said lifting mounds of red earth and scattering it on the wooden casket. He beckoned to Mama who came near the grave and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, sweat trickled down her brow and mingled with her tears as she too lifted the spade and drove it into the earth and then scattered its contents on the casket. But Father Anthony was wrong; I did know what was happening. I knew that Papa was in the wooden coffin and Mama had just thrown sand on him.