01/05/2026
In the village of Isusu, Eyo was known for two things: the exquisite grain of his cedarwood and the unstoppable deluge of his tears.
Whenever a sôúl passed away, Eyo was the first to arrive at the bereaved home. As he measured the length of the body, he would sob so violeñtly that his spectacles would fog. At the wake, he would howl louder than the widôw, clutching his chest and swéariñg that the world had lôst its brightest light.
The villagers whispered, "What a tender soul Eyo has. He carries the weíght of our entire village in his heart."
When the wèàlthy Magistrate Udo dîèd, the fúñeral was the largest Isusu had ever seen. Udo had been a diffíçúlt man, but his estate was vast.
Eyo outdid himself. He crafted a çàsket of rare ebony with silver handles that gleamed like moonlight. At the gràvésíde, as the heavy box was lowered, Eyo çöllapséd to his knees. He wàíled until his face was the colour of a ripe beet, wiping his eyes with a silk handkerchief, his shoulders shaking with "gríéf."
"Poor Eyo," whispered a young woman. "He looks as though he’s búríèd his own father."
After the service, the village elders gathered at the local tavern to settle the estate's affairs. Eyo was there, too, but the transformation was startling. The redness had vanished from his eyes. His voice, once cracked with sorrów, was now sharp and rhythmic.
He sat at a corner table, his ledgers spread out before him. He wasn't môúrñîñg; he was counting.
"The ebony was sourced at a premium," Eyo muttered to the Magistrate’s exéçútor, his eyes cold and dry as flint. "The silver handles were an import feé. And since I had to work through the night as distraúghted as I was, there is a surcharge for the èmôtīôñál laboúr of the craftsmanship."
He presented a bíll that was nearly triple the usual rate. When the exéçútor hesitated, noting the steep príçé, Eyo’s face hàrdéned.
"I poured my very sôúl into that box," Eyo sñàpped, the last trace of "tenderness" gone.
"The téàrs I shed were for the masterpiece I had to put in the dîrt. Do you p@y for the wood, or do you p@y for the man who loved the déçéàsed enough to çry?"
One of the elders, who had been watching from the bar, shook his head. He realized then that Eyo wasn't çryíñg for the Magistrate’s life, nor for the family’s lôss.
He was çryíñg for the theatricality of the sàlé. The more he wèpt, the more he justified the "artistry" and the "búrdéñ" of his work. His teàrs weren't water from the heart; they were lubricant for the transàçtion.
In Isusu, they eventually learned the bíttér truth: The tèàrs of the çôffin maker cannot be trusted at the fúñeral, for while the family môúrns a life, the builder is merely môúrñîñg the end of a profitable project.
© Offu Aya Ebirigor
