Three days after we bur!ed my father, he walked into our living room, dropped his car key on the table, and asked why his food wasn’t ready.

For a few seconds, nobody moved. The broom slipped from my hand and hit the floor. Mummy turned slowly from the kitchen doorway, her wrapper halfway tied, her eyes wide like she was seeing something from a dream. My younger brother, Chike, was sitting on the floor beside the TV, arranging his school shoes. He looked up, blinked twice, and whispered, “Daddy?”

The man standing there looked exactly like him — same broad shoulders, same scar on his left cheek, even the same wristwatch he always wore before the accident. Only that this one had a fresher cut under his right eye and a strange black watch on his wrist that blinked faintly like light from a phone screen.

Mummy screamed and slumped before anyone could hold her. Chike ran to the corner, crying. I didn’t move. I just stood there staring at him. His clothes weren’t new. He was wearing the same white shirt he wore the day we took his body to the mortuary, but it was clean, ironed, and smelled faintly of petrol.

“Ezinne,” he said, his voice calm, tired, like someone returning from a long journey. “Is there no food in this house again?”

I couldn’t answer. My mouth refused to move.

He looked around like nothing was wrong. He even adjusted the curtain by the window and sighed when he saw the dust on the table. Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he dropped into his old chair and leaned back. That same chair we had pushed to the side when we cleared the sitting room after the condolence visit.

“Daddy,” I finally said, shaking. “We bur!ed you.”

He smiled, small, quiet. “I know.”

The words rolled out of him so casually it made my skin cold.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes calm but distant, like he was remembering something far away. “Somewhere between here and there,” he said softly. “But I made it back.”

Mummy started stirring on the floor, murmuring prayers under her breath. I wanted to help her up, but my legs felt heavy. Chike stood near the doorway, watching him with wet eyes.

Then something strange happened. The sound of a car engine came from outside — a familiar one. I went to the window. Daddy’s black Toyota Camry, the same one we parked at the mechanic’s after the accident, was now sitting in the compound, its engine still running.

I turned back slowly. He was sitting in that chair, eyes half closed, humming that old church hymn he used to sing on Sunday mornings.

Mummy started shouting his name, begging him to “go back wherever he came from.” He didn’t respond. He just smiled faintly, still humming, still alive, while that strange light on his wrist blinked steadily.

And that was when I realized — whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

This story is titled:

MY D£AD FATHER WHO CAME BACK FOR HIS DINNER

Chapter 2 will be dropping soon. If you want to receive notification when I drop it, don’t hesitate to F0ll0w, llke and c0mmēnt.