We should have probably used the longer route – but we didn't.

You see, we were coming back from playing football with our friends –my elder brother and I. It was late,  about a few minutes after seven in the evening.

We knew our mother was going to kill us when we got home, because she had warned us several times to be home before nightfall.  As at the time we began heading home, twilight was upon us. We were late quite alright, but I and my brother had conflicting ideas as to how we should get home.

"Let's use the normal way," I said in Igbo

"It's too far from our house." My brother disagreed,also in Igbo, "this way is shorter."

Our mother had also warned us against using that shortcut at any time apart from in the mornings afternoons. My brother knew that, and I knew that he did. But Izundu was headstrong – and he still is.

 After a few moment of arguing, my brother won. I reluctantly went along with him and we trudged along. My brother filled the silence with jeers directed at me. He did that to keep from being afraid, or better still to keep me from noticing that he was afraid.

"Ekenne," he would say, "you fear too much."

We were now walking through a particularly lonely part of the shortcut. At this point, the path was just a single with bush edging the road in either side. There was a kolanut tree in front, right in the middle of the path. So to continue, we'd have had to pass the kolanut tree.

The kolanut tree was in sight but as it was twilight, we couldn't see it clearly.

"I smell smoke." I told Izundu

"It seems like someone is cooking, " Izundu replied, " I smell food."

I was getting jittery.

"Food kwa?" I asked, "who could be cooking in this bush kwanu? Izu, let's go back."

Izundu waved my fears away and we kept moving.

As we got closer to he kolanut tree, we could see a figure. Something was there, and the closer we got, the more human whatever was there seemed.

At a point, we could see that it was an old woman bent over a boiling pot, her back turned to us.

Izundu held my hand, a sign that I should stop walking.

The old woman was singing a song. I can't remember it now, and strangely enough, I couldn't remember it even then .

All I know is that the song was in Igbo, and the old woman was singing something about boys and girls that would not listen to their parents, there was also something about the long hands of death.

I and my brother stood there, entranced by the old woman's croaky voice and the chilling lyrics of her song. The pot was steaming,and I could smell palm oil.

Then the old woman started turning towards us slowly, still singing about the long hands of death.

My brother snapped out if it first.

"Ekenne!" He shouted, pulling my hand. 

I stirred to life and we both bolted, our slippers flung to unknown locations.

We used the longer route and ran all the way home, never looking back.

I remember my head feeling very light, and goosebumps covering my body.

Our mother did beat us for coming home late, but we accepted the beating gratefully. After all, there are worse things than being beaten, like getting caught by the long arns of death.

We never told anybody what happened that day, infact we never even spoke about it to each other. We were afraid that talking about it would make it suddenly very real, and not just some bad dream. 

We're grown up now, Izundu is 33 and I am three years his junior. Till this day, we haven't spoken about it.

I and Izundu came home for Christmas this year, Izundu was driving. That path had been made into a dirt road for vehicles, but the kolanut tree was still there.

Immediately he sighted the kolanut tree, we exchanged a glance and Izundu promptly turned the car around, heading towards the longer route.