I had always heard this slow cry. It usually started immediately after the light had been put off and everyone had gone to bed. I had always had it in mind to trace this scary sound that came from an unknown place in our compound.
The cry came again. It repeated itself, just like the cry of a bushbaby. A spirit in our house, I asked myself. I pretended not to have heard it until I was sure that my younger brother, who is just 12 years old, had slept, after which I stood up and decide to check it out. This night, I remembered my dad’s words: Be a man.
I left my room with a torch in my hand.
The night was covered with darkness. No light anywhere apart from the light from my torch. Around the compound, I moved. My heart was beating fast. I had heard stories of children that were kidnapped through cries and sounds. My fear increased. I couldn’t go back. I was desperate to see where the sound came from.
I got to a place in our compound. I dashed my foot against a stone. A noise was made. Another noise came from my back. Something dropped. I couldn’t look back because of fear. I heard some footsteps. Are those the footsteps of the crying spirit? The noise stopped. The cry became slow. And low. It faded away.
It was exactly 1:30 am. I had spent twenty minutes tracing the voice. I moved back to my room since the crying voice had stopped.
At exactly 2:30, I heard the voice again, but this time, the voice became that of two persons. Two voices. One was speaking some things I couldn’t hear well. The other was loud a bit. It’s more like an oppressed person’s voice. I didn’t want to stand up again. I feared.
I traced the voices for the last time. I followed the voices carefully. This time around, I didn’t leave our apartment. I got closer to my mother’s room. The door was open. The voices seem to come from her room. Some scary things were on the floor. My mother should be in, I said to myself. I feared that something bad had happened to her.
I rushed in. I saw her.
She was having sex with a neighbour.