By Aminu Ahmed
Everyone came to Mama Efe’s burial with respect in their eyes and secrets in their mouths.
The church was packed. Women in matching gele. Men in flowing agbada. Her picture stood at the altar: smiling, graceful, untouchable. “A virtuous woman has gone home,” the pastor said.
But as the choir sang and the casket was lowered into the earth, her youngest daughter, Teni, felt like she was burying more than a body.
She was burying the lie.
For 29 years, Teni had lived in the shadow of her mother’s legacy. Mama Efe—the beloved caterer, the prayer warrior, the woman who raised four children alone after her husband died in a car crash. People whispered that she was made of steel and scripture.
But Teni knew another woman.
She remembered a slap that split her lip at age seven—for spilling oil. She remembered being locked out at night because she forgot to sweep. And she remembered the bruises her brother Fola covered with long sleeves.
Nobody ever questioned it.
“Your mother is strict because she wants the best for you,” Auntie Ronke would say.
Even when Fola ran away at 17 and never came back, no one blamed Mama. They called him a black sheep. A disgrace.
Now, as the priest said the final amen, Teni couldn’t breathe.
She stepped back, away from the crowd, away from the condolences. She walked past the caterers setting up jollof rice and soft drinks. Past the music, the dancing, the celebration of a woman who had ruled her house like a quiet tyrant.
Behind the church, under an almond tree, she sat on the ground.
A voice startled her.
“You’re not crying.”
She looked up. It was Fola.
Older now, beard speckled with grey. He hadn’t come to the wake, hadn’t responded to any calls. But here he was, standing like a ghost with his hands in his pockets.
“She hurt you too,” Teni whispered.
Fola nodded. “But no one believed me. They said I was lying.”
Silence sat between them, thick with memory.
“Why did you come?” she asked.
He looked at the fresh grave in the distance. “To make sure it’s over. To see if I could forgive her.”
“And… can you?”
Fola sighed. “I’m not sure. But I won’t pretend anymore. That woman in the obituary? I don’t know her.”
Teni wiped her face. “Me neither.”
Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a folded sheet. It was her tribute. The one she didn’t read in church. The one she rewrote five times, trying to find a balance between truth and decency.
She handed it to him.
He read it. His lips moved silently. Then he nodded.
“You said what I couldn’t.”
Teni stared at the graveyard in the distance.
“I don’t hate her,” she said. “But I won’t keep lying to protect a reputation built on fear.”
Fola stood. “You coming?”
“Not yet.”
He left.
Teni sat a while longer.
Then she dug into the soil beside her with her hands. Gently, she buried the unread tribute.
Not out of shame, but as closure.
The lies they’d been forced to live were six feet under now—right where they belonged.
Editor’s Note:
The Lies We Bury is a story about the silence many families live with—the myths we protect, and the truths we hide in the name of respect. As part of our Echoes of a Nation series, it challenges us to confront legacies not just with reverence, but with honesty