Nkem's Letter

Dear Nkem,

I am dead. I hope you are happy.

I willed everything to you. But I demand a fabulous funeral. I will have it no other way.

Photo sourced from 'Empire' Season 1

If Korede Bello and Will Smith refuse to anchor my service, I will not have any. I insist that Yemi Alade sings me Johnny twice: The first during the service (if it holds) and the second during the actual burying .

I do not want black, white or shady Ankara prints anywhere close to the funeral arena or else it will rain, heavily. I will not have you cry because you are the devil’s muse. You will not miss me, so let us pretend it is my sweet sixteen, again.

I will have a royal blue hand knitted woollen interior for my coffin which must be black wood studded with thirty hexagonal shaped onyx crystals on the outside. I want to be worn my white Gucci jump suit, strapless push bras, and silver accessories. You need not be told that my all my hair extensions go down with me. And thunder will fire whoever tries to bury me with a fake tiara, plastic flower, wedding ring or gown.

Of course, only chops, smoothies and bottled water should be served at the reception. I was very healthy and health-conscious. I will not be mocked by high calorie eba and ofe-akwu.

Take note that if there are no fireworks at the closing cocktail, I will haunt your dreams, or ask Mama Gee to do so in real life.

Nkem, I hate you madly for cheating on me and I took my life to set you free. But I will reincarnate as your malaria if you mess up my funeral. Even WHO will see reasons with me, you bastard!

Your loving wife,

Somtochukwu.
(My Flash Fiction entry for the Etisalat Prize for Literature Flash Fiction Competition's 2015. Voting Commences on 9th November, 2015 if I'm shortlisted)