"Oluchi... Oluchukwu..." Emezie called my name again and again, his voice laced with urgency. "You have to be strong, o. Life is not about crying every time."
I couldn't answer. The sobs came in waves, unrelenting.
"Bia, stop crying," he said once more, firmer this time.
I leaned into his chest, letting the tears soak through his shirt.
"Ah-ah! Stop doing like I'm your husband," he said, trying to lighten the heavy air. "Be strong. You're too emotional. Any small thing—gbam—you start crying. Life is not like that. You must brace up, Oluchi."
His voice was stern now, tired.
He gently unwrapped my arms from around him. "I'm leaving, o. I'll buy fish, meat, and some other things. I'll take Mama's tea and her clothes to the hospital. I'll bring back her dirty ones."
He paused and looked at me. "These are things you should be doing. Instead, you're here crying. This thing—eziokwu—it pisses me off!"
But his words fell like dry leaves on wet ground. The tears poured even harder, as if my heart would drown.
Ebezina, he murmured, his voice softening. "It's okay."
Still, I cried. I couldn't help it.
"I'm going, o. I'm going." He walked out the back door.
Moments later, he returned to the room. He picked a few of Mama's gowns silently, like someone moving through smoke.
Bye, he whispered as he turned and left again.
I struggled to pull myself together. My chest felt heavy, my thoughts scattered like dust in harmattan wind. Slowly, I dropped to my knees.
"God, please..." I whispered, my voice breaking. "Please let nothing happen to Mama. She's all I have..."
The tears returned, fierce and uninvited. I buried my face in my palms and wept, my body collapsing fully onto the floor. I rolled on the cold cement, sobbing into my prayer.
After a while, something shifted. A calmness, small but certain, began to settle in my bones. I wiped my face, sat up, and decided to go to our former house to gather the things Emezie was not able to sell.
I took a tricycle, paid ₦300 from the money Emezie had left with me, and headed there. The house stood like a tired memory, full of what once was. I gathered the few things, mostly old pots, faded wrappers, mama's bed, my books, little household necessities and a broken mirror Mama used to call her "truth teller."
We loaded everything into the keke and took it back to Emezie's house. I found an old store room tucked behind the kitchen, dusted it as best as I could, and arranged the things inside.
Afterward, I took another bath—the water cool and cleansing, like a quiet rebirth. I laid a mat beside the window and stretched out, my body aching from movement and emotion.
My stomach rumbled, but there was nothing to eat.
I thought of Mama. I should be by her side. But the truth? I didn't want to watch her suffer. Watching her in pain felt like knives under my skin. It broke my heart that I couldn't help her, couldn't save her.
Emmy was right—I was weak.
But somehow, in him, I had found strength. A steady hand when mine shook.
Perhaps God had a reason for bringing him into my life, for weaving him into every thread of my journey.
Night deepened, swallowing the compound in layers of darkness. The air was still. I woke up groggy, stretched, and glanced around—Emezie had still not returned.
Unease crept into my chest like cold water. I pulled off my gown and tied Mama's old wrapper tightly around my chest. Reaching for my small Zeal button phone, I dialed his number. Switched off.
A heavy silence pressed on the walls.
I lit the lantern and placed it on the center table, then sat on the creaky wooden chair in the living room. The flame danced on the cracked walls.
I pulled a piece of paper and began to write, whispering each word like a prayer:
Beans
Pepper
Onion
Kerosene
Oil
Corn
I paused. My hand trembled, but I continued.
I will reopen Mama's business... but this time, I'll fry the akara at the junction. If I'm lucky, I'll make ₦600 from the akara, and another ₦200 from akamu—₦800 total in a day. If market no good, maybe ₦500.
I sighed.
If I save for a week, that's ₦3000. Small, but it's something. In a month, ₦12,000... Still poor, o. But one step na im dey lead person reach journey end.
I looked at the time. Still no sign of Emezie. My heart tightened.
Has something happened? To Mama? Or to him? God, please... I've seen enough for one lifetime.
I paced back and forth, from the kitchen door to the window. I must have done that a dozen times until I heard footsteps—then the door creaked open.
Emezie staggered in, the sour stench of alcohol announcing him before his words did. He clutched a bottle tightly like it was the only truth he had left.
"Chiemezie! Where are you coming from at this hour?" I rushed to him.
"Nne, shift!" he barked, swinging his arm wildly and knocking my hand aside. He staggered further in, his eyes bloodshot, his steps uneven.
"Emezie... you're not a drunkard. What is this? What's happening to you? Talk to me!"
He turned, face flushed, voice bitter. "Are you my wife, ehn? Stop asking me stupid questions. If you want to ask me such things, marry me first, then I would answer you!"
He laughed, short and sharp like broken glass, and then—he vomited. Right there, on the cold cement floor.
"Emmy... Emmy..." I rushed to hold him, steadying his weight. He shoved forward, stumbling into his room. The door slammed behind him.
Moments later, I heard the dull thud of his body falling onto the mattress. He didn't rise again.
I returned to my mat by the window, curled up beside the quiet lantern. My tears came again, this time without noise—just warm streams down my cheeks.
I sobbed myself into sleep.
I woke up before Emezie. That alone was strange—normally, the morning sun would climb halfway through the sky before I stirred. But today, my eyes opened early, sharp with hunger and something heavier I couldn't name.
The house was still. Emezie hadn't come out from his room. The silence pressed into my bones.
My stomach rumbled. I sat up slowly, thoughts already running: Did Emezie even take the food to Mama? The meat and fish he talked about? There was no way to know yet. But one thing was sure—I needed to see her, to spend time with her.
I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth outside by the tap. Then I tied a scarf over my head and slipped on a clean blouse.
With determination firming my steps, I walked to the market. The air buzzed with voices, the smell of dried crayfish and burning firewood thick in the air. I bought everything on my list—beans, pepper, onions, palm oil, corn. I still had money left.
My stomach growled again. I found my way to Iya Ajibola's buka and ordered amala with ewedu. No meat—I wanted to cut costs. The food was hot, the soup thick with flavor. I ate with joy and gratitude.
Afterward, I headed to the hospital.
As I entered Mama's ward, a hush settled over the room. The air shifted. Everyone stared at me, eyes full of something I couldn't quite read. A woman leaned close to another and whispered, "Na she be the grand pikin." The ward attendant murmured as I passed. My heart skipped.
What happened? What's going on?
I rushed to Mama's bedside.
She lay there, eyes closed, breathing slow and shallow.
"Mama... Good morning," I said, softly at first.
No response.
"Mama," I said again, a little louder. "Mama, I'm here o."
I touched her gently, then again, more urgently.
Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered open. She looked at me and smiled weakly.
"Nwa m... how are you?" she whispered.
"I'm fine, Mama," I replied, my voice cracking with relief.
Just then, the nurse walked over with a wide grin.
"Your mama kept all of us entertained last night o," she said. "She told us a beautiful story—like proper moonlight tale. Nurse Popoke, everybody laughed tire. Even the patients were clapping."
The other nurses nearby chuckled, nodding. I smiled, the tight knot in my chest slowly loosening. I had feared the worst—but instead, Mama had been storytelling, weaving joy into the ward like she always did at home.
The nurse reminded me it was time to give her a bed bath. I helped, and as we bathed Mama, we chatted and laughed. The mood in the room was warm.
Another nurse came in and gently changed her bandages.
"Mama, have you eaten?" I asked.
She nodded slowly. "Emezie brought me pepper soup last night... plenty fish and meat inside. I still have some in my flask."
My eyes widened. "Emezie did?"
"Yes," Mama said with a faint smile. "He is a good boy. Chineke ga-agọzi ya."
"Amen," I whispered, heart full.
"Mama's wound is healing very well," the nurse said with a bright smile as she adjusted the drip stand. "Your mother is a strong woman. Just imagine—only a few days ago, the doctors were discussing amputation."
She placed a clean towel on the bed rail and looked at me kindly. "Your prayers are working, my dear."
"Thank you, nurse," I said, deeply moved. "You and Nurse Popoke are doing such a good job. God bless you."
She nodded, her smile lingering as she walked away to attend to another patient.
Mama reached for the flask beside her bed and sipped the last of the pepper soup Emezie had brought the night before. The broth warmed her face, and she looked satisfied.
We talked all through the morning, her voice stronger, her laughter now rising above the groans and murmurs of the ward.
"Did your mother call?" Mama asked suddenly.
"Mbanu, Mama," I shook my head. "She didn't call o."
Mama scoffed, her brows furrowing. "So Beatrice would just leave me here to die, eh?"
"Die kwa as how?" I said, eyes wide. "Mama, you can never die—except God says it's your time. I'm here for you."
There was a long pause. Then, quietly, I asked, "Mama... what about my father? Do you have any number I could use to reach him—or anything?"
Her eyes turned sharp.
"Kpuchie ọnụ!" she snapped. "Don't ever mention that man again."
I froze.
"Focus on yourself," she said firmly, "and how to make something out of your life. That man ran off to America and never looked back. He left your mother to raise you alone."
Her voice softened a little.
"Nwa m... gather your strength, o. Life is not easy. You'll have to work hard—harder than most. Look at me now—I may soon go. Be brave."
Her hand was dry and warm in mine. I held it tighter, watching the way her chest rose with each breath. This woman—my grandmother—had carried fire in her bones for decades. Now, she was teaching me how to carry my own.
I looked around the ward. Only days ago, the place had smelled like death—Mama's wound filling the air with the stench of decay. Now the smell had faded, and the wound was healing. Was this not a miracle?
I turned to Mama again, a small smile tugging at my lips. She was still speaking, telling me about her childhood, about moonlight games and war songs.
Then the door creaked open.
Emezie walked in.
"Mama, good afternoon," he greeted.
"Ehen! Nwa m, how are you?" she replied, lighting up at the sight of him.
"Fine," he said, his eyes shifting toward me. "Oluchi."
I didn't answer.
"Oluchi," he called again, softer this time. "Let me see you. Let's talk."
I turned my face away.
"Mama, what would you like to eat now?" I asked, pretending not to hear him.
Mama turned to me, her eyes narrowing. "Oluchukwu, he's talking to you."
I sighed and rose to my feet.
I followed him out.