His Shades

---

People who squat at funerals irk me so much.

They arrive looking solemn, shedding crocodile tears and offering condolences, but somehow, they always manage to settle in comfortably. They eat, drink, gossip, nap, and linger long after everyone else has gone home. Meanwhile, the grieving family is expected to feed them for days, sometimes weeks, while dealing with their loss.

I saw it happen after my cousin was murdered.

He was killed by his own buddies after a card game. The circumstances of his death were ugly, shocking, and difficult for the family to process. Because of that, relatives kept arriving. Then more relatives arrived. Then some of them stopped acting like visitors altogether.

They came with bags.

Actual bags.

Within days, it felt as though they had moved into my uncle's house. Every hour someone wanted tea. Someone else wanted coffee. Another person asked if there were more pastries. There was always a request, always another mouth to feed.

I spent most of my time in the kitchen.

My aunt was furious but couldn't say anything. Grief and hospitality are a terrible combination. People expect the bereaved to be endlessly accommodating, no matter how exhausted they are.

My uncle was even more frustrated. His house had been hijacked. Every room was occupied. Every chair had someone sitting in it. There was nowhere to rest, nowhere to think, nowhere to mourn his son in peace.

The longer it went on, the more annoyed I became.

Then I remembered something.

My cousin and I were roughly the same height and weight. We had similar builds. I also knew how to mimic his voice.

Most of the squatters were relatives, and many of them held a particular belief: a life taken unjustly does not rest easily. People whose lives were stolen were said to remain restless until justice was done.

For days, no one had entered my cousin's room.

People avoided it.

An idea formed in my mind.

I put on his clothes.

Then his shoes.

Then his shades.

Finally, I wrapped his favourite scarf around my face.

I waited until the house was full.

Then, I slowly opened the door to his room and stepped out.

The conversations continued at first. A few people glanced in my direction and froze. I greeted everyone loudly, using his voice.

A few more heads turned.

I made sure enough people saw me.

Then, before anyone could gather themselves, I slipped away and disappeared from sight.

For a second, the house was silent.

Then chaos erupted.

Within moments, people were rushing outside. Others were praying. Some were shouting. Word spread through the house faster than fire: my cousin's ghost had been seen.

The effect was immediate.

The squatters stopped squatting.

The house emptied.

And just like that, my uncle and aunt finally had some peace.

A little later, I returned to the kitchen as though nothing had happened. One after another, cousins came rushing to tell me what they had seen.

They described him.

His clothes.

His voice.

The way he had appeared and vanished.

I listened carefully and kept my mouth shut.

For months, I never told anyone.

The rumours survived much longer than the funeral. People continued talking about his ghost for years, and no one ever discovered the truth.

I let them believe it.

I eventually took his shades.