A Shocking African Folktales. The man who laughed at Funerals.
In the village of Umoro, where the red earth met the sky in a quiet embrace, Enamdi was an enigma. At funerals, while others wept and mourned, Enamdi laughed—a loud, joyful sound, like he’d heard the finest joke. Children fled from him, adults whispered behind cupped hands. Some called him cursed, others mad, but Enamdi never explained. He’d smile, shake his head, and walk away, leaving confusion in his wake.
One morning, sorrow swept through Umoro. Elder Obina, the village’s wisest and kindest soul, had died. Obina fed hungry children, mended feuds, and carried the village’s heart in his gentle hands. His death left Umoro in tears, and plans for a grand funeral began. But beneath their grief, the villagers shared a quiet worry: would Enamdi come, and would he laugh?
The funeral unfolded under a large tent by the village square. Black-clad mourners filled the space, their faces heavy with loss. Obina’s family sat at the front, weeping softly as the priest began his prayers. The air was thick with sorrow, every breath a shared ache. Then Enamdi appeared at the back, his wrinkled shirt and dusty sandals stark against the somber crowd. The villagers tensed, waiting. As the priest spoke of Obina’s life, Enamdi’s laughter erupted, loud and rolling like thunder. Heads turned, eyes widened in shock. Obina’s son, Chiky, leapt to his feet, face red with fury. “How dare you laugh at my father’s funeral?” he shouted.
The crowd murmured, some calling for Enamdi’s removal. But he laughed harder, clutching his stomach, tears streaming from his eyes. Chiky stormed toward him, fists clenched. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you laugh when we mourn?” Enamdi wiped his face, his voice soft but clear. “I’m not mocking your father. I laugh because I see what you cannot.” The villagers gasped. “What do you mean?” Chiky demanded. Enamdi shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.” He turned and walked away, leaving silence in his wake.
After the funeral, whispers consumed Umoro. “Why would he say that?” one woman asked. “Maybe he knows something we don’t,” another replied. Chiky, humiliated, couldn’t let it go. He began asking about Enamdi’s past, determined to unravel his strange laughter. Before answers came, tragedy struck again. Amaka, a young woman known for her kindness and beauty, died suddenly. Her mother wailed, insisting it wasn’t an accident. Rumors of foul play spread, and as Amaka’s funeral loomed, the village braced: would Enamdi laugh again?
Under cloudy skies, the mourners gathered. Amaka’s family sobbed as the priest prayed. Enamdi arrived, his face unreadable. As the ceremony continued, his laughter broke through, eerie and piercing. Amaka’s mother screamed, “Why are you laughing at my daughter’s death?” The crowd turned, furious. Enamdi stopped, his eyes serious. “I don’t laugh at your daughter. I laugh because the truth is near.” Murmurs rose. “What truth?” someone shouted. “Stop speaking in riddles!” another cried. Enamdi turned and left without a word.
Chiky’s anger boiled. “He knows something,” he thought. That evening, he followed Enamdi to his small hut at the village’s edge. The sun dipped low, the air cool. Enamdi sat outside, staring at the sky. “Tell me what you meant,” Chiky demanded. “What truth?” Enamdi sighed. “The dead do not rest until their stories are told. Your father and Amaka were killed, Chiky, and the truth won’t stay hidden.” Chiky froze. “What? My father was poisoned? Amaka was murdered?” Enamdi nodded. “Their spirits are restless. They demand justice.” Chiky shook his head. “You expect me to believe you hear the dead?” Enamdi’s eyes were steady. “You don’t have to believe me. The truth will reveal itself if you listen.”
Chiky left, shaken. He told no one but couldn’t shake Enamdi’s words. He began investigating, asking about his father’s final days. Okoro, a friend, hesitated before admitting, “Obina wasn’t himself. He mentioned a bitter taste in his food.” Chiky’s heart raced. He visited Adaku, the village herbalist, who confirmed Obina’s stomach pains and her suspicion of poison. “I warned him to be careful, but it was too late,” she whispered. Chiky’s doubts grew—could Enamdi be right?
Turning to Amaka’s death, Chiky learned from her friend Ebere that Amaka was scared before she died, having discovered something dangerous about someone in the village. “She wanted to tell the elders,” Ebere said. Chiky realized Amaka’s death was no accident. Desperate, he returned to Enamdi. “You were right,” he said. “There’s more to their deaths.” Enamdi nodded. “The dead don’t lie. You must decide: uncover the truth or let it stay buried.” Chiky clenched his fists. “I need the truth.”
Enamdi leaned forward, voice low. “It’s dangerous, Chiky. Someone in this village will do anything to keep their secrets.” Chiky pressed, “Is it my uncle, Aen?” Enamdi nodded. “Yes, but he didn’t act alone.” Chiky’s mind reeled. He questioned Ada, the housemaid, who broke down, admitting Aen threatened her family to access Obina’s food. “I didn’t mean for anyone to die,” she sobbed. Chiky’s anger mixed with sorrow—she’d betrayed them, even if coerced.
With Ada’s confession, Chiky and Enamdi planned to expose Aen. “Invite him to dinner,” Enamdi suggested. “Catch him off guard.” At the dinner, Chiky steered the conversation to Obina’s death. Aen’s smile faltered. “Do you think anyone hurt him?” Chiky asked. Aen’s hand shook. “Why ask that?” Chiky stood. “Because I know you poisoned him.” Enamdi emerged, holding Ada’s written confession. “Your accomplice confessed.” Aen stammered, “It wasn’t supposed to kill him, just weaken him.” Chiky’s fury surged. “And Amaka? You killed her too?” Aen broke down. “She overheard me and Ada. I had to silence her.”
The next day, Chiky presented the evidence to the elders. Aen repeated his confession, admitting his jealousy over Obina’s land drove him to poison. The village was stunned. Aen and Ada were banished, their betrayal laid bare. Chiky found Enamdi laughing softly under a tree. “Why now?” Chiky asked. “Because justice is served,” Enamdi said. “Your father and Amaka can rest.” Chiky nodded, relieved. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
The village healed, Enamdi’s laughter no longer feared but respected. Chiky planted a tree for Obina and Amaka, vowing to honor their memory. One morning, Enamdi’s hut was empty—he’d left without a word. As Chiky stood there, a faint laugh carried on the breeze. “Thank you, Enamdi,” he whispered. The man who laughed at funerals had brought justice, leaving a legacy of truth in Umoro’s heart.
