It has been three days since we buried my father. Three days since the priest threw the last handful of red sand over his coffin. Three days since the grave swallowed the man who used to laugh the loudest in our house.

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And yet, on the fourth evening, he walked into our living room, dropped his car key on the table, and asked why his food wasn’t ready.

For a moment, time stopped.

The broom slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a hollow thud. My mother froze at the doorway, her wrapper half-tied, her eyes wide like she was staring into a dream that had turned into a nightmare. My younger brother, Chike, sat cross-legged beside the television, polishing his school shoes. He looked up, blinked twice, and whispered, “Daddy?”

The man standing there looked exactly like him — same tall frame, same broad shoulders, same scar on his left cheek. Even the same brown wristwatch he used to wear before the accident. But there was one difference: a fresh cut under his right eye, and a strange black watch on his wrist that blinked faintly, like a dying phone screen pulsing in the dark.

“Is There No Food in This House Again?”

My mother screamed and collapsed before I could move. Chike ran into the corner, crying.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it echo inside my ears.

The man — my father, or whatever this was — looked around the room as if nothing was wrong. He even reached for the curtain by the window and adjusted it, muttering, “This place is always dusty.” Then he turned toward me and spoke again, his voice calm, heavy, familiar.

“Ezinne,” he said. “Is there no food in this house again?”

My mouth went dry. Words refused to come.

He sighed, pulled out his chair — the same one we had pushed to the corner after the condolence visits — and sat down, leaning back like he used to after a long day’s work.

“Daddy,” I whispered, my throat shaking. “We buried you.”

He smiled — small, faint, almost peaceful.

“I know.”

The air in the room changed. Cold. Still. Like the house was holding its breath.

“Where Have You Been?”

I forced myself to take a step forward.

“Where have you been?”

He looked at me for a long time, eyes calm but distant — as though he were remembering something from far away.

“Somewhere between here and there,” he said softly. “But I made it back.”

Behind me, my mother stirred on the floor, murmuring prayers under her breath, “Jesus… Jesus… oh God, have mercy…”

Chike stood near the door, clutching his school shoes to his chest.

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“Daddy,” he said timidly, “are you hungry?”

My father smiled again. “Always,” he said.

The Car Outside

Then we heard it — the sound of an engine rumbling outside.

I walked to the window and froze. There, in the compound, was Daddy’s black Toyota Camry — the same car that had been totaled in the accident, the same one we had seen towed to the mechanic’s yard. Now it sat there, headlights dim, engine idling softly like a heartbeat.

I turned back slowly. He was still in his chair, eyes half closed, humming an old church hymn:

“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…”

My mother began shouting, calling his name, begging him to leave.

“Go back! Go back to where you came from! In the name of Jesus Christ, go back!”

He didn’t even look at her. The blinking light on his wrist pulsed rhythmically — faint, steady, almost hypnotic.

Then he opened his eyes, looked at me, and said quietly,

“Tell your mother to stop shouting. I’m home now.”

The Smell of Petrol

That was when I noticed it — the smell.

It wasn’t sweat or earth or perfume. It was petrol. Faint but unmistakable, the sharp scent of fuel that stung my nose.

His white shirt, the same one he had worn the day of the accident, was spotless and neatly ironed. Not a tear, not a stain. But as I moved closer, I saw dark smudges under his fingernails, and the faint outline of dust on his shoes — the kind of dust that clings to freshly dug soil.

I wanted to scream, but my voice caught in my throat.

Between the Living and the Dead

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Each second felt like a hammer.

“Why did you come back?” I asked finally.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes met mine, steady and calm.

“Because I wasn’t done,” he said. “They said I could rest, but I can’t — not yet.”

“Who said?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked toward the door, where my mother had stopped praying, frozen in fear.

“Tell your mother,” he said quietly, “that the key is still in the car.”

The Key

He stood, walked to the table, and placed his car key on it — the same key we had buried with him. The same key that should have been six feet underground.

The moment it touched the table, every light in the house flickered.

Chike screamed. My mother fainted again.

I just stood there, frozen, watching as he walked toward the doorway.

Before stepping out, he turned and said something I still hear in my sleep:

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back when it’s time for dinner.”

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Then he stepped outside.

Aftermath

We ran to the window. The car was gone. The compound was empty. Only the faint smell of exhaust lingered in the night air.

I looked at the table. The car key was still there — cold, gleaming, real.

For hours, we sat in silence. The only sound was the ticking clock and my mother’s soft sobs. When dawn came, we gathered enough courage to open the door. There were footprints in the sand — large, heavy, and leading straight to the gate.

The gate was still locked from the inside.

The Black Watch

Two days later, we went to the mechanic’s yard where the wrecked car had been stored.

It was gone.

The watch, too — the strange black one that blinked on his wrist — was nowhere to be found among his belongings at the mortuary.

The attendants swore they had sealed his body with a rosary, not a watch.

When we asked where the car had gone, the mechanic stared blankly and said,

“Nobody came for it. But it’s not here anymore.”

Three Nights Later

On the third night, while I was washing dishes, I heard it again — the sound of a car pulling into the compound.

I ran to the window.

The Toyota Camry sat there, headlights off, engine silent.

The car key on the table began to hum.

And I realized — he had come back for dinner.

To Be Continued…

This story is titled “MY DEAD FATHER WHO CAME BACK FOR HIS DINNER.”

Chapter 2 will be dropping soon.

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© Akponwei John Michael — A Tide of Drizzling Inspiration.