Strange things happen at night. I have heard drunks sing better than a Catholic choir on their way home from drinking. I’ve heard people laughing in the dead night, too, and upon inquiry, I've been told to dismiss them, that they’re just silly ghosts minding their business, that they’re touring the village and would be back in the sea before the first rooster crowed. 

  Often, Mom would advise me to close my ears and sleep. I've been doing precisely that for a long time—sleeping like a baby. Perhaps because I play a lot during the day, and my bones would ache with fatigue so much that I'd sleep like the dead.  

Tonight, however, things are different. For one, my brother is snoring a lot, as if he intends to be crowned the champion snorer. For another, there is a man outside. I’ve heard him scream. Now I can't sleep or even tell the time. I sit up and listen, head cocked. 

“Give me food. I’m Hungry!” The man screams. “Help thy neighbor!”

No one, I’m sure, speaks English like that. At least not the people of my village. 

So, who’s the man in the night outside? His English is so perfect. I turn to my brother. He’s the only help around as far as cracking the man’s identity is concerned. I shake him awake. The man has awakened him because even the snoring has eased. 

“What?” He sits beside me, taking in the darkness. 

“Hear that?” 

“What?” 

“A man screaming outside!” I whisper as though the man might hear us and shut up. 

“Oh, that one.”

I'm surprised by the brother’s casual answer. What does he mean by Oh, that one?

“Who is he?” 

"That's Ojore.”

“impossible. Ojore can’t speak English.”

"Brother, alcohol makes men overcome a lot. For Ojore, alcohol gives him ideas and lightens his tongue.”

He’s lying, treating me like a child. “Have you tasted alcohol yourself to know its powers?”

“Nope.” He lies on his side and pulls the blanket over his head. 

“How come you know so much about alcohol, then?”

“First, I'm older than you. So, I know things. Second, you should go back to sleep.”

On cue, the man shouts, “Thou Hungreth. Give bread. Give though bread, breathrens!”

“That can't be Ojore!”

“It’s him,” replies my brother. 

Again, the Englishman asks for bread in strange English. 

“Ojore didn’t even step into a classroom.” I stare down at my brother. 

My brother turns to face me but doesn’t get up. “Who do you think it’s, if not Ojore?” 

I say nothing.  

“Ghost?” prompts my brother. 

Of course, I have an idea. The problem is, I can't share it.  

“Stop wasting time. Tell me who you think is outside.”

Suddenly, words fall on my tongue, and they’re out before I can swallow them.

“What? Go outside now! Are you out of your head?” asks my brother. 

“C’mon, you’ve taken me to nightclubs before. You can't be afraid of the dark, can you?” This does the trick because my brother gets up and looks me in the eye.

Despite the darkness, we can see each other well, including our surroundings, thanks to the moonlight sneaking into the house through the eaves. 

“If it’s Ojore, you give ten shillings.”

“Are we betting?” I’m not surprised my brother has resorted to gambling. he’ll make a fine gambler someday, no doubt. 

“Yes.”

I have ten shillings in the pocket of my shorts. 

We leave. Through the window, of course. The door can't be opened. Even Samson from the Bible could not kick this door open. Usually, Grandma would lean heavy timber logs on it, shutting it until the next day.  

We are in the dark now that we have climbed down the window, with my brother leading the way, holding a bright torch, the shaft of which spears into the night towards the gate. 

I have entertained the notion that it is an Englishman, one from the movies, who has been flying around under his parachute until a strong wind disrupted his flight, causing him to land in our village. Unfortunately, he arrived without food or medical supplies. Poor Englishman!

But he will be fine. We will take him home and wake up Mom, who will prepare him some food. As if reading my mind, the man exclaims, "I am hurt, my brethren. My leg broke. I am stuck!"

There’s a tree just after the gate. The white strobe from the torch has exposed a man there, catching him leaning his back on the tree trunk. Only a second and the man’s identity will be revealed. 

Past the gate and still behind my brother, I pat my pocket. The coin is there, all right. 

Then the light falls on the man’s face, and I lose.