I Was Paid ₦50,000 to Cry Episode 1

I thought it was just a hustle.

I thought it was acting.

I didn’t know I was being paid to murder a man with my voice.

If anybody ever invites you to join a “Prayer Warrior” group, a “Mourning Association,” or anything that pays cash to cry at funerals, please block that person immediately. Bind them. Cast them out of your life. Run.

My name is Simi.

I’m an upcoming actress based in Surulere. And if you know anything about the industry, you already understand my suffering. Auditions every week. No callbacks. Bills waiting patiently like demons. Sapa was not just greeting me — it was sitting on my chest.

That was when my friend Kemi introduced me to a woman everyone called Mama T-Gold.

“Simi, it’s easy money,” Kemi said one afternoon.

“Rich people want their burials to be dramatic. They pay us to cry, roll on the floor, shout names. ₦50,000 for three hours.”

I laughed. ₦50,000 just to cry?

I’m an actress. I can cry for Africa.

That Saturday morning, a small bus picked us up. Twelve women. All in black lace. Some old. Some young. Some looked like church women. Others looked like they had seen things.

Mama T-Gold stood at the front like a commander.

“This Chief was a very powerful man,” she warned.

“The family says you must wail. Call his name. Don’t stop until the coffin is buried. Anybody that stops won’t get paid.”

Her tone wasn’t normal. It was too serious for a burial job.

We arrived at a massive compound in Ikorodu. High fence. Quiet environment. No church. No mosque. Just a garden that felt… wrong.

The coffin was glass.

Open.

Inside lay Chief Badmus.

He looked like he was sleeping. Fresh. Peaceful. No cotton wool in his nose. No smell. No stiffness.

The family members weren’t crying. They were just sitting. Watching us.

That was my first fear.

Mama T-Gold raised her hand.

“Start.”

“Ehhhhh! Boda Badmus!” she screamed.

We followed.

I gave it everything. I rolled on the grass. I tore my head tie. I screamed until my throat burned. The other women joined in, and soon the compound was filled with raw agony. It sounded like souls tearing themselves apart.

After about one hour, something changed.

The air became heavy. Thick. Cold.

My head started spinning. My body felt weak. The louder we screamed, the colder the place became.

I was kneeling close to the coffin when I wiped my tears and looked inside.

That was when my heart stopped.

The Chief’s chest was moving.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

I froze.

His eyelids were twitching. Slowly. Like someone fighting sleep.

He was breathing.

He was not dead.

He was paralyzed.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

Every scream caused his body to twitch. Every wail hurt him. Our crying was not mourning it was a ritual. A spell. We were screaming his soul out of his body.

I stopped crying.

Instantly, his eyes flew open.

Red. Wet. Terrified.

He looked straight at me.

“Help me,” his lips formed silently.

Before I could move, Mama T-Gold was beside me. Her grip on my shoulder felt inhuman.

“SING,” she hissed.

“If you stop, you take his place in the box.”

I looked at the Chief.

I looked at the shovel beside the grave.

If I screamed, I would kill him.

If I stayed silent, they would kill me.

The other women were screaming even louder now. Possessed by money. Possessed by something darker.

I made my choice.

I screamed — but not in grief.

“HE IS ALIVE!” I shouted.

“HE IS ALIVE O!”

I jumped on the coffin and smashed the glass.

Chaos erupted.

The family members pulled out machetes from under their robes.

I didn’t think. I ran.

I scaled the fence like an animal. Barbed wire tore my lace and my skin. I ran into the bush barefoot. I heard gunshots. I heard Kemi screaming my name.

I didn’t stop running.

I trekked for hours until I reached the expressway.

Now I’m sitting in a police station in Ikeja, writing this with shaking hands.

The police are laughing at me. They say I’m stressed. They say Chief Badmus died two days ago in London.

But I know what I saw.

And I know that somewhere in Ikorodu, twelve women shared ₦50,000…

…and a man was buried while he was still begging for air.

Be careful what you do for money.

Some gigs are rituals.

Some tears are weapons.

And some funerals are not meant for the dead.

TBC