Most people don’t expect to die on a Tuesday.
Especially not before lunch.
I certainly didn’t.
The day started the way most of my weekdays start: with disappointment.
Specifically, disappointment in myself.
My alarm rang at 6:00 a.m.
I ignored it.
It rang again at 6:15.
I ignored it with even greater confidence.
By 6:30, my alarm and I were no longer having a discussion. We were in a toxic relationship.
When I finally woke up, sunlight was already pouring through the curtains of my one-bedroom apartment in Ikeja, and my first thought was that I had ruined my life.
Again.
Now, to be fair, I ruin my life at least twice a week, so this wasn’t particularly alarming.
I checked my phone.
Nine notifications.
Three missed calls from my project manager.
A reminder from my bank that I was significantly poorer than I remembered.
And a message from my mother asking if I had prayed.
The answer to all of these things was disappointing.
I dragged myself out of bed and ordered breakfast using money I absolutely should not have been spending. This is one of my gifts. Making financially irresponsible decisions while fully understanding they are financially irresponsible.
As I waited for my food, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Twenty-five years old.
Software developer.
Reasonably intelligent.
Questionable life choices.
The usual.
An hour later, I was in traffic.
Of course I was.
Lagos traffic is less of a transportation issue and more of a spiritual condition. At this point, I am convinced it exists independently of roads. Even if everybody suddenly learned how to fly, there would still be traffic. Somehow. Somewhere.
I spent most of the journey complaining internally about things beyond my control.
Government.
Fuel prices.
Data costs.
The economy.
Arsenal Football Club.
The usual.
By the time I got off the bus, I was already late.
Again.
I checked the time.
11:41 a.m.
I remember this because one minute later, everything changed. There was a horn. Loud. Violent. The kind of horn that immediately convinces your nervous system that something has gone terribly wrong.
I turned.
Saw a vehicle.
Then…
Nothing.
No dramatic tunnel of light.
No heavenly choir.
No life flashing before my eyes.
No ancestors waiting at a gate.
Nothing.
Just darkness.
Complete darkness.
Then silence.
The strange thing is that I don’t remember being afraid. I don’t remember feeling anything. It’s like somebody removed six minutes from existence and forgot to return them.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital. My head felt like somebody had attempted construction work inside my skull.
Machines beeped around me. Voices floated in and out. And sitting beside the bed was my mother.
Crying.
Now, if you’ve ever seen an African mother cry because of you, you’ll understand why I immediately wanted to apologize for everything I had done since birth.
Including things she didn’t know about.
She grabbed my hand so tightly I thought she might accidentally kill me again.
“Kelechi.”
That was all she said. My name. Like she wasn’t entirely convinced I was still here.
A doctor eventually arrived. A tired-looking man whose face suggested he had witnessed far too much nonsense from humanity.
He explained what had happened. I had been hit by a delivery van. My heart had stopped. There had been panic. I had been dead. For six minutes.
Six.
Whole.
Minutes.
I remember staring at him. Then asking the only reasonable question.
“Are you sure?”
The doctor looked at me.
“You would prefer we guessed?”
Fair point.
The following days were uneventful. Visitors came. Friends called. Relatives sent messages containing alarming amounts of prayer emojis. Everyone behaved as though I had returned from a great adventure. Meanwhile, I mostly felt tired. And confused.
Life slowly resumed.
I returned to work.
Returned to traffic.
Returned to complaining.
Everything appeared normal.
Until three days ago.
I was standing beside a roadside suya spot after work. The evening air smelled like grilled meat, petrol, and poor urban planning.
The suya man was expertly ignoring basic health regulations. Customers crowded around. Music played somewhere in the distance. The world felt ordinary. Then somebody called my name.
“Kelechi.”
I turned.
An old man sat beneath a nearby tree. Nothing unusual about that. Old men sit under trees all the time. It’s practically one of their hobbies.
The problem was that I had never seen him before. Yet he looked at me like we had known each other for years. His face was deeply lined. His grey beard stretched almost to his chest. His clothes looked old. Not dirty. Not worn. Old. As though they belonged to another century.
I frowned.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
The old man smiled. The sort of smile people wear when they know a secret you’re not supposed to know yet. Then he said something strange.
“You’re back.”
I stared at him.
Back?
Back from where?
I opened my mouth.
Ready to ask.
Ready to demand an explanation.
Ready to discover whether the man was mentally stable.
But before I could speak, he stood.
Turned.
And vanished.
Not walked away.
Not hidden.
Vanished.
Completely.
Gone.
I blinked.
Looked around.
Nothing.
No old man.
No movement.
No explanation.
Just empty space beneath the tree.
For several seconds, I stood there holding my suya and wondering whether near-death experiences came with complimentary hallucinations.
Eventually I convinced myself there had to be a rational explanation. Because there is always a rational explanation.
Right?
I went home.
Watched television.
Tried to forget about it.
Almost succeeded.
Then today happened.
This afternoon, I saw a woman sitting inside an office elevator that wasn’t moving. Nobody else seemed to notice her. She wore clothing that looked decades out of date. When I glanced at her, she smiled.
The same smile.
The exact same smile.
The one the old man had worn.
An hour later, I saw a young boy standing beside a food vendor. Nobody acknowledged him. Nobody spoke to him. Nobody even looked at him.
Except me.
And just before he disappeared, he waved.
This evening, I saw another one.
A man standing at a bus stop.
Watching me.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Like he knew me.
Like he had been expecting me.
Like he had been waiting a very long time.
That was when I stopped pretending this was normal. That was when I stopped blaming stress. Or concussion. Or exhaustion.
Because three sightings is a coincidence.
Four is a pattern.
And patterns are difficult to ignore.
So here I am. Sitting alone in my apartment. Writing this. Trying to make sense of something that makes absolutely no sense.
There is one thing I know for certain. The people I keep seeing are connected to those six missing minutes. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But I know it.
The way you know when rain is coming before the clouds arrive.
The way you know when somebody is standing behind you.
The way you know when a chapter of your life is ending.
Something followed me back.
Or maybe something was waiting for me to return.
Either way, I don’t think those people are alive. And somehow, I have a feeling they’re only just beginning to introduce themselves.