11/11/2025
SECRETS OF THE CASKET MAKER – EPISODE ONE
The afternoon sun was cruel above Ohaeze Furniture Market, bleaching the rusted roofs until they shimmered like polished brass. Ejiofor sat outside his shop — Ejiofor and Sons Limited — staring blankly at the row of caskets glinting in the heat. His signboard, once proud and bold, now looked tired, the red paint fading like his hope.
Inside, his three boys moved without excitement, rearranging the caskets in neat lines — mahogany, oak, and a few painted white. Nneka, his salesgirl, was dusting them with an old rag, humming a slow, sad tune that only deepened the silence around him.
For three weeks, not one casket had sold. Not one.
Ejiofor pressed his palm against his cheek and sighed.
God, is this how I’m going to continue? he thought. I can’t pay house rent, school fees, nothing. Njideka is pregnant again, almost due, and I haven’t registered her for antenatal. What kind of husband am I? What kind of father?
His eyes lingered on the caskets — beautiful boxes for the dead — and a cold irony settled in him. The living who make homes for the dead now can’t afford to feed his own living.
“Oga!” Nneka’s voice broke his thoughts. She held a folded paper in her hand. “Market Union brought this levy bill. Security levy — twenty thousand naira. Obi said you must pay today.”
Ejiofor’s heart sank. He stood up slowly and approached the group of men standing at the edge of his shed.
“Good afternoon, my brothers,” he greeted, forcing a smile.
“Nothing is good about this afternoon, Ejiofor,” Obi replied sharply. “Three months now, you never pay security levy. Two months, NEPA bill still dey. Are you the only one facing hard times?”
Ejiofor felt the words cut deep. Obi , who just got his freedom just last year — now talks to me like this? Ah, this life, see how you’ve humbled me.
"This life has humbled me o, even you Obi , you who used to come to me for pocket money when you were still serving Oga Nicodemus, I used to give you transport, now I've turned to your mate ." Ejiofor said to Obi .
"Get out! did you bring yourself to this point? swear that nobody helped you while you were coming up ? are you up self ? you cannot even pay water bill , security bill , I heard you're owing shop rent , if the business doesn't work for you , leave it!" Obi said , Ejiofor had been having issues with Mazi Nicodemus, he wondered if that was why Obi who used to honour him was talking to him like he was a small boy . "Obi I've said it's enough, we came here to collect levies ,not settle old scores ." Brother Eberechukwu one of the market leaders said .
Elder Okolo, the oldest of the group, stepped forward, his eyes heavy with pity. “Ejiofor, we’ve been patient. You know we cannot continue to secure your goods when others are paying. If you don’t pay this month, we’ll lock your shop.”
“Mazi Okolo, you know me,” Ejiofor pleaded. “You know I singlehandedly fixed the market gate. I poured concrete on this line. I was there when—”
Obi interrupted with a sneer. “Nobody send you to do that! If you can’t keep up, pack your things and go.”
“Obi!” Elder Okolo barked. “You don’t talk like that to your senior.”
“Senior that cannot pay his bills,” Obi muttered under his breath.
“I’ll pay tomorrow evening,” Ejiofor said finally, voice low but firm. The men nodded and moved on to the next shop.
He stood there for a long while, watching them go. Then he turned to Nneka. “Come let’s look for customers.”
Not long after, a family arrived — a well-dressed woman and two men, grief written on their faces. They wanted a casket. Ejiofor’s heart lifted with sudden hope. He guided them gently through his line of polished boxes.
“This one,” he said, tapping on a smooth, brown mahogany casket. “Imported finishing. Two hundred thousand naira, but I’ll do one fifty for you. I just want to help.”
The woman turned to her brother. “One fifty? Still high. We saw something similar over there.”
Ejiofor smiled. “Madam, you won’t find better work than this. Look at the joints — handmade. No nails showing.”
The younger man shook his head. “One forty last price.”
Ejiofor’s lips tightened. “No, sir. One forty can’t buy even the wood I used.”
They whispered among themselves, then turned away. Moments later, he watched them cross to Mazi Nicodemus’s shop across the street — the same design, the same wood — and buy the casket for two hundred and fifty thousand naira.
Ejiofor stood frozen, sweat stinging his eyes. The world no longer rewards honesty, he thought bitterly. Nicodemus would rather inflate prices and smile, and they’d buy from him.
That evening, while driving home, his old Toyota van coughed and died in the middle of the road. The fuel tank was dry. He bought two litres of black-market petrol from a boy by the roadside — the last ₦2,000 in his pocket — and managed to crawl home.
At the compound gate, Papa Chinelu, his landlord, was waiting. The man’s arms were folded, his face hard.
“Ejiofor, I no longer understand you,” he began. “You’re owing two years’ rent. Two years! You keep telling stories every month end.”
“Papa Chinelu, please,” Ejiofor said softly, glancing toward the window where his children peeped, wide-eyed. “Business has been hard. I’ll soon pay—”
“Hard for everybody!” the man cut in. “You think I’m not feeding family too? I’m tired. By the end of this month, pack out. I don’t want to hear anything. Buhari government is not hard for only you ." he rumbled .
“Papa Chinelu, please—just one more month. I beg you in the name of God.” Ejiofor fell to his knees. “My wife is pregnant. She’s almost due. Have mercy.”
The landlord looked away. “I have given you three more weeks , if you don't clear up all the money and pay for one more year , before next month , I'll come and remove the roof over your flat ." He turned and walked off, muttering.
Ejiofor stood there, feeling the sting of his children’s gaze through the curtain. He entered the house slowly, shoulders slumped. Njideka met him at the door, her belly round and heavy, her eyes already wet.
He went straight into the bedroom and lay on her chest like a wounded child.
“Njideka,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do again. Everything I touch is dying.”
She wrapped her arms around him, brushing his hair softly. “Ejiofor, it will be well. God doesn’t forget people like you.”
He didn’t answer. He just wept silently on her breast, his tears soaking her wrapper. Outside, a faint thunder rolled over Onitsha — as if heaven itself was sighing for the casket maker who couldn’t bury his own troubles.
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FORTY SHARES FOR TWO EPISODES TOMORROW
© Solomon Adinya
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