My dad’s burial ceremony was a replica of Post Election Violence. I thought the high number of people who had come to the funeral were mourners only to realize that they were hooligans hired to disrupt my father’s send off.
Before my father’s death, there was great animosity between my mother and step mother. She used to call my mother a witch because our family was more successful than hers.
When my younger brother died three years ago under unclear circumstances, it emerged that she had a hand in his death. Even before the burial ceremony kicked off, three masked men forced their way into our house.
Village elders tried to prevent them from reaching my father’s casket but their effort proved futile. My paternal uncles and a few strong men also attempted to smoke them out but they were overpowered.
The masked men lifted my dads’ remains from the casket and carried the casket separately as they walked out.
My mother reached for her phone and quickly called the police. Before the arrival of the police, hell broke loose.
My step mother, his three sons and other three masked men broke into my mother’s bedroom looking for a land title deed.
In the twinkle of an eye, my elder brother arrived with a group of young men armed with machetes. It looks like he knew something wrong was going to happen. The incident lasted for only twenty minutes but what happened cannot be narrated without tears.