They said it wasn’t his time. That the accident abruptly ended his young life, and great dreams. They said the incident wasn’t normal.

That was why the night he was proclaimed dead, no one could sleep in his house, as an invisible hand scattered bowls and plates in the kitchen, opened and closed doors in the house, turned on the shower in the washrooms and put out all the lights in the house.

It was a scary incident as eerie sounds and moans roamed the house. The fury of an angry ghost.

Many tenants fled the house. Others were too shocked to leave, witnessing for the first time how frustrated a ghost felt for having its precious life and ambitions plucked from its grips.

He had been hospitalized, following a fatal accident on the road that claimed so many lives. His brother, who was in school at the time, came to pay him a short visit during their inter-semester break. The visit coincided with a wedding of a close relative. So, he, being a driver, was hired by some of his tribemen living in the city with him to take them to the village for the ceremony.

Taking his brother along, they set of early in the morning, on a Monday, exactly a week to Christmas.

The wedding started in the village with a simple traditional ceremony : the paying of brideprice and the presentation of other customary gifts to the bride’s brothers and aunts.

After that, the attendees hurried to a nearby church as the bride went to a special room to be assisted by a bevy of ladies to put on her wedding gown and some make-up.

The bridegroom was in another room  taking off a special cloth and sandals he had worn for the traditional wedding. His friends and best man sat on the bed sharing jokes of past times, all in an effort to calm their man who was growing nervous because it was his Big Day. He was getting ready to put on his suit and tie for the second part of the marriage ceremony which was to take place at the chapel.

The question on everyone’s mind was : where was Ndola? They had commissioned him with the task of bringing VIPs from the city for the wedding. It was a pride to have relatives and friends from the city to grace one’s event in a village. They added a fresh look and fresh touch to rural events. They also brought in fresh, solid cash which cushioned the weight of the expenditures for the organizers.

It was now midday and no sign of the invited guests from the capital of the country. The priest, who was growing restless as the minutes passed, insisted that the ceremonies continue, with or without the guests.

It added a pale color to a wedding that was predicted to stand out in the village’s history books.

The bridegroom felt wounded. It was a day to show his wife that he too had a solid base of important people in his life, people he had served loyally and it was his turn now to reap what he had sown.

Calls and calls and calls were made. Phone calls. Prayers. Phone calls within the village, outside the village, even outside the country. Prayers to God for the safety of the travelers. Prayers to the ancestors. Prayers to the gods. Prayers to whatever ear was listening from wherever… Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus… All to no avail.

There was no news of the visitors, nor their driver Ndola who was to bring them.

A volunteer then decided to track them using his motorbike. He said he knew the roads usually taken by Ndola whenever he made trips to the village.

Nobody had an idea what they were going to discover.

A very rude shock.

No wonder plates and cups and spoons and buckets in Ndola’s house wouldn’t lie in peace the night he died.

His invisible body stormed his house and scattered every item in his path. No tenant could sleep that day.

The fury of an angry ghost.