Grave Secrets

When the drum of truth beats in the heart of Africa, its echoes stir both the spirits of the past and the dreams of tomorrow.

––––––––

CONTENTS

––––––––

Readers Celebrate Eddie Inyangala’s Captivating African Stories

"If you’re not reading Eddie Inyangala’s novels, you’re missing out! Just finished Grave Secrets, and OMG—African legends, suspense, and twists I never saw coming. Total book hangover! #MustRead #AfricanStories"

"Every book by Eddie Inyangala is a journey into the soul of Africa. A Lover, a Dog & a Loaded Gun kept me on edge, and Grave Secrets  left me speechless. His storytelling is unmatched!"

"Eddie Inyangala’s Grave Secrets is a masterpiece! The way he blends mythology, suspense, and African traditions is pure magic. I couldn't put it down. Can't wait for his next novel!"

BOOK 1

GRAVE SECRETS

The Long Road to Parenthood

I had always imagined myself as a mother. From my early 20s, I’d daydream about rocking a baby in my arms, their tiny hands curling around my finger. I envisioned my husband, Thomas, a stern but loving father, tossing our child into the air while laughter filled the room.

This yearning wasn’t new; it had been planted in me as a little girl growing up in Kenya. My friends and I used to play a game called cha mama na cha baba—or kalongo as we called it. We’d split into families, assigning roles of mother, father, and children.

I often found myself cast as mama during our endless rounds of kalongo. My role felt natural, even cherished, as I took charge of our makeshift household with pride. I’d pretend to cook meals using leaves, dirt, and water. We’d collect discarded bottle tops and stones to serve as plates and food. Sometimes we would bring foodstuff from the house. Our children would sit in a neat row, waiting for the imaginary dinner while I gave them orders to fetch water or pretend to sweep the house.

The fathers, usually the older boys, would come home from their jobs, often mimicking their real-life fathers’ postures, carrying pretend briefcases made of old cartons.

Did you cook, Mama? one of the boys would ask in a mock-serious tone, and I’d answer with the same playful sass my mother used at home.

I’ve been slaving away all day, Baba! I’d say, crossing my arms dramatically.

Our giggles filled the air as we learned, through this simple game, the dynamics of family life. Even then, I had a sense of what I wanted my future to look like: a happy, loving home full of warmth and children. But dreams, I’ve learned, don’t always match reality.

Thomas and I had been married for seven years. Seven long years of waiting, hoping, and praying for a child that never came.

At first, the absence of children didn’t bother us. We were young and carefree, focused on building our lives and enjoying each other’s company. But as the years passed, the questions began.

Then we finally faced the cold truth: we couldn’t conceive. The tests, the endless doctor visits, the invasive procedures—they were all futile. I tried to hide my disappointment for his sake, but each negative test broke me a little more. My husband, always pragmatic, would hold my hand and reassure me. We'll figure it out, Anna. One way or another, we'll have our family.

But figuring it out wasn’t easy. The world doesn’t have patience for couples without children. Friends and family would smile sympathetically but then drop thinly veiled comments:

You’ve been married seven years already? When are you starting your family?

Children are a blessing, Anna. Don't wait too long.

Even at work, my colleagues’ offhand remarks stung.

You two have all the time in the world for vacations. Must be nice without kids.

Whenever we met for coffee, the conversation would inevitably turn to their children—milestones, achievements, school choices.

"Anna, you’d make such a great mom," one of them said one day, her voice dripping with well-meaning pity.

Thomas’s colleagues were even worse. At office parties, they’d nudge him playfully. "Still no junior, eh? Better get to work, Thomas!"

Then there were our parents. Thomas's mother, in particular, was relentless. "A child is what grounds a marriage. Without one, you're just playing house." Her words cut deep. I began to feel as though our love wasn’t enough without someone to carry it forward. Thomas, though supportive, was often away for business. The responsibility of proving to the world—and to myself—that we could be a family fell on me.

The pressure was suffocating. I avoided family gatherings and distanced myself from friends with children.

After years of disappointment, I was the one who brought up the idea of adoption. There are so many children out there who need a family, I told Thomas one evening as we sat in the dim light of our living room.

He was hesitant at first. What? Are you sure? It’s a hell big commitment you know, he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. Are you sure we’re ready for this?

I’m ready, I replied firmly. And I think you are too.

Eventually, he agreed, though I knew he was more reluctant than he let on.

Late into the night, after Thomas had retreated to bed, I found myself lost in the glow of my laptop screen. Adoption forums, agency listings, and countless profiles had become my nighttime ritual. Each profile told a story: hopeful beginnings, heartbreaking interruptions, and an aching desire for love.

Thomas had agreed we should adopt, but his involvement was minimal. You know better what kind of child we need, he’d said, brushing off the topic like another item on his to-do list. It wasn’t coldness, but practicality—his way of compartmentalizing our shared struggles. His detachment left an unmistakable sting every evening I spent time alone in this search,.

It wasn’t resentment that filled the void. It was something deeper, more hollow. Loneliness. This dream of motherhood, one I had carried since I was a child playing kalongo, was no longer a shared aspiration. It was mine to bear alone.

We had wanted a baby initially. A fresh start, unblemished and full of untapped potential—a child we could mold into our vision of family. I had imagined tiny fingers gripping mine, the first steps across our living room floor, the first garbled Mama filling the silence of our home.

But reality wasn’t so kind. The demand for infants was staggering. The waitlists stretched on for years, and the agencies were frank about the challenges. Infants are rare, one caseworker told me. Older children, however, are readily available.

At first, I resisted the idea of adopting an older child. It felt like skipping the pages of a book I had always wanted to read, diving in somewhere after the first chapter. But as the months passed, practicality began to wear down my idealism.

It was on one of those quiet nights that I saw his face for the first time. His photo appeared at the bottom of a page, almost an afterthought, among dozens of smiling, posed pictures. He wasn’t smiling. His expression was subdued, almost solemn, but his eyes—big and black—seemed to pull me in, piercing through the screen like a plea for help.

The file attached to his profile was sparse but revealing. Sam, age 3. His mother had left him at a shelter after fleeing an abusive relationship, and his father’s identity was unknown. There was a starkness to the words that hit me hard. Abandoned. Alone. Awaiting placement.

I stared at his photo for long, imagining his small hands clasped in mine, his head resting on my shoulder. He wasn’t a baby, no, but his need for love felt clear, almost urgent. My heart swelled with an unfamiliar certainty. This was him. This was our child.

When I showed Thomas the photo the next day, his reaction was mixed. He leaned in, studying the image, his brows furrowed in thought.

A three-year-old? he said, his voice tinged with skepticism. Isn’t that too old? I thought we wanted to start fresh.

He’s still so young, Thomas, I countered with conviction. And he needs us. Just look at him.

Thomas sighed, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. If you’re sure... His hesitation lingered in the air like a storm cloud, but I didn’t let it dampen my resolve.

I am, I said firmly. I’ve never been more sure.

Welcome to the Family

The adoption process was a labyrinth of bureaucracy, patience, and emotional stamina. I had underestimated just how grueling it would be—mountains of paperwork that required every detail of our lives, from financial statements to medical histories, home inspections where I frantically scrubbed every corner to prove we were worthy, and endless interviews where strangers probed into our pasts, our marriage, and our motivations.

Every step felt like a test, as though one wrong answer or a misstep could dismantle the fragile dream I clung to. Thomas attended the interviews when he could, sitting stiffly and answering questions with the same precision he brought to his business meetings. But it was clear: this was my mission, my burden to carry.

After weeks of back-and-forth, updates, and nerve-wracking silence, we finally received the call. Congratulations, the caseworker said over the phone, her voice warm but professional. Sam’s ready to come home. My heart skipped a beat.

***

The day we brought him home felt surreal. The weather was bright, almost too cheerful for the magnitude of what was happening. I remember the drive to the foster care facility vividly—Thomas gripping the wheel in silence while I fidgeted with my hands - a mixture of excitement and nerves coursing through me.

When we arrived, Sam was waiting in a small room filled with mismatched furniture. He sat on a plastic chair, clutching a worn toy-car. His eyes flickered up to meet mine, cautious and uncertain, and my heart ached for him.

Hi, Sam, I said gently, kneeling to his level. His lips pressed together in a thin line, but he didn’t look away.

The caseworker gave him a nudge, encouraging him to stand. This is your new family, sweetie.

Sam didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he slid off the chair, gripping his toy with one hand and the caseworker’s hand with the other.

The ride home was quiet. Sam sat in the backseat, his wide eyes taking in every detail as though committing it to memory. He didn’t speak, but his small hand never let go of the toy.

When we arrived at the house, I opened the door for him and held out my hand. He hesitated before taking it. His fingers were cold and small against mine. I led him inside, his feet dragging slightly as though the enormity of the moment weighed him down.

I’ll never forget the way he looked around our home for the first time. His eyes darted from the plush couch to the large window overlooking the garden, then up to the framed photos on the wall. He scanned the room like he was searching for something familiar but finding only strangeness.

He lingered near the doorway, one foot half-stepping forward and then retreating.

It’s okay, Sam, I said softly. This is your home now. You can explore.

Thomas knelt beside him, a rare softness in his tone. You’ll have your own room, buddy. And plenty of toys to play with.

Sam’s eyes flicked up to meet Thomas’s for a brief second before looking away again. He was quiet, shy, and fragile, like a bird afraid to leave its perch.

Then, tentatively, he took a step forward, his small frame illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the window.

I swallowed the lump in my throat as I watched him take in his new world. We’re so glad you’re here, Sam, I said.

He didn’t reply, but when his gaze landed on me again, there was something in his eyes—a flicker of trust, faint and fleeting, but enough to make my heart swell. This was the beginning of something new, something fragile and beautiful. And I promised myself then and there that I would do everything to give him the love he deserved.

Welcome home, Sam, I said, kneeling to his level. He didn’t respond but held my gaze for a moment before looking away.

Thomas, eager to bond, offered to bathe him. I was relieved, thinking this was a sign my husband was as committed as I was to our new family.

But just minutes after they went into the bathroom, Thomas burst out, his face pale. We must return him! he shouted, his voice shaking.

What are you talking about? I demanded, rushing to his side.

He... there’s something wrong with him. His body— Thomas cut himself off and shook his head.

I ran to the bathroom, terrified. Sam sat in the tub, splashing water innocently. What’s wrong? I asked, inspecting him. But there was nothing unusual that I could see.

Thomas refused to explain further, but from that day on, he kept his distance from Sam. I tried to convince myself it was just nerves or the overwhelming nature of parenthood. But deep down, a seed of doubt was planted.

***

Despite Thomas’s unease, I found myself falling irrevocably in love with Sam. There was a quiet intensity about him that drew me in, a kind of unspoken connection. He was affectionate, but not in the usual noisy, clingy way of most children. Instead, he’d sit silently by my side, his small frame pressed against mine, his fingers tracing intricate, looping patterns on my arm. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words carried a weight far beyond his years. His big eyes, so unnervingly bright, would lock onto mine, holding my gaze with an intensity that made me wonder what he saw when he looked at me.

***

It started subtly at first—little quirks that I chalked up to Sam’s adjustment period. He had a fascination with animals, something I initially found endearing. He’d spend hours in the yard, seemingly captivated by nature. But his fascination wasn’t the joyful curiosity of a child chasing butterflies or trying to befriend neighborhood dogs. It was something darker.

I remember the first time I felt a twinge of unease. It was a warm afternoon, and I’d gone out to call Sam in for lunch. I found him crouched in the far corner of the yard, motionless, staring at a spider spinning its web. A fly, still struggling, was trapped in the sticky threads. Most kids would have marveled at the spider’s craftsmanship or recoiled at the sight of the wriggling insect. Not Sam. He leaned in closer, his lips curling ever so slightly into what I could only describe as a smile.

Sam, I called gently, startling him. He stood abruptly, brushing off his pants as though caught in the middle of something forbidden.

Another time, I discovered him poking at a dead bird that had likely flown into the window. Its tiny body lay lifeless in the grass, feathers matted. Sam knelt over it, prodding it with a stick, tilting his head as though trying to understand something unspoken.

Leave that alone, sweetheart, I said, my voice catching slightly. He glanced up at me, his expression unreadable, then simply walked away without a word.

The incident with the neighbor’s kitten came not long after. I had been in the kitchen when I heard a faint, distressed mewing from the yard. Rushing outside, I froze in horror. There was Sam, holding the kitten by its tail, swinging it in deliberate circles.

Sam! I shouted, rushing forward to snatch the terrified animal from his grasp. That’s not how we treat animals! My voice was sharp, more out of shock than anger.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t cry or even look guilty. Instead, he stared at me blankly, his head tilted slightly to one side, as though trying to process my reaction. It didn’t hurt it, he said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.

That’s not the point, I said. You don’t do that to living things.

He blinked at me, then turned and walked away without a word. I stood there, clutching the trembling kitten.

By the time Sam was five, the strange incidents had escalated. Dead animals began appearing in the yard with alarming frequency—birds with their wings splayed at unnatural angles, squirrels with deep gashes in