The scent of iron rose from the damp ground. Grass was left drenched from the tears of the world, for the loss of the man everyone in Lagos had loved. Rain from the previous nights still clung to the stones, crawling through the cracks.
Footsteps echoed heavily as each step sank deeper into the grass with a soft and gentle sound.
His casket rested on marble, its wood dark and bitten by the weather, corroded by time. A thin strip of red cloth peeked through the lid of the man's final slumber.
Side by side, rows of men and women stood in silence.
Black suits, red ties, faces that had lacked warmth.
The suits were far too prestigious.
The sight of mourning looked wrong against the mud — the suits, the casket, all of it too polished and alien in a place like Lagos.
The young man's cold eyes drifted between the crowd — a field of black and red, humans stood yet they remained still as if he had walked in a lost field full of tombstones.
DONG.
DONG.
DONG.
Heavy bells rang, consuming all remaining sound and movement.
Eating all emotion and grief.
The man watched the casket. He analysed each carving.
And each mistake.
Each scratch.
Each regret.
Tears hadn't left his eyes.
He couldn't remember the last time they'd said goodbye.
DONG.
The final clang from the church bells had faded from his ears. He raised his arm up and loosened the grip of his red tie from his neck. The red fabric felt unfamiliar to him, far too rich and far too kind between his fingers.
Drop.
Rain fell to the ground as he walked.
The crowd scattered in silence.
Boots and heels scraped the surface.
Their shoulders were stiff and full of tension…
Yet no words were spoken.
Eyes tracked his movement, yet they weren't harsh — just distant, missing warmth.
Watching a man that didn't belong.
The gravity around Lagos stretched around him as if it distorted; smoke from the morning flames and glass drops from the rain avoided his grasp. He watched his reflection scatter just as they did.
Even though he had walked like them.
Dressed like them.
Inhaled the same air as them.
He just wasn't one of them.
It wasn't new to him.
He had always known.
Upon the crowd a few whispers cut the silence.
"I remember…"
A woman spoke as she took a deep breath.
"I remember when my sweetheart met that man."
She whispered to the child beside her.
Drop.
"Didn't believe me when I told her to stay away — now look at her…
Gone just like the rest."
The child's voice came out like a gentle cry.
"Is that what happens…
When you talk to an Abynt?"
She tugged on her mother's sleeve.
Two men's voices drifted in the distance.
"Matthew… What on earth are you doing?
Are you pleading for death?"
One of the men hissed.
The tremble dug into his voice.
"That man… he's nothing more than an Abynt, his father was strong like a horse — now look where he ended up…
Just like the rest."
Drop.
A final drop of rain landed on Lagos.
The man couldn't move, his throat tight as if he were drowning — his lips moved, yet no words left his mouth. His eyes opened wide.
"Matthew…
Move."
The first whispered softly.
The young man walked past as Matthew felt his feet lighten. His eyes stayed glued to him — watching the passing man in fear.
The man didn't turn.
He didn't speak.
He had heard it all before.
None of it was new to him.
Same tales with different sayings always found him, even if they weren't about him.
He kept walking and the road opened before him like a wound that would never…
Be healed.