FLASH FICTION: Identity Crisis

You will think that people will be shocked at what we found out at my mom’s funeral earlier this week. No, no one was shocked. No one was angry that she didn’t acknowledge all the efforts we made to make her last days memorable. No one was even pissed that she insisted that her will should only be read at her burial. Surprisingly, not one single person was devastated that she left her entire fortune to the madman who lives at the end of our street.

Yes, no one was broken because she’d always loved pranks. In her lifetime, Aunty Madu, as she was fondly called, played the worst tricks on everyone she came in contact with.

Once, my mom got my dad to sell his Range Rover to her and then buy it back from her! Who does that? I mean! She also made her nephew believe his mother was his sister in one straight argument.

My mom was the Queen of Mischiefs, and as we got closer to her dying day, she would often talk of one final mischief. No one saw it coming. The next day, seven young men showed up claiming they are my mom’s first son. Please, Nigerians help me. I don’t know who I am anymore.

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