Chapter 14 – The Woman in the Frame
After Aunty Sade's declaration of "silent warfare," the compound entered a new era of weird. No more chalk. No more oil. Just long side-eyes and mumbled prayers that sounded like people fighting in their dreams.
One night, while cleaning the mirror in our room, I noticed something odd. The mirror tilted slightly, and behind it was a thin, dusty envelope — flat as a pancake, almost invisible. I pulled it out and found an old photograph inside.
It was a black-and-white picture of a woman. She was standing right in front of our compound gate, back in the day when it was still painted blue. Her gele was tall enough to compete with Aunty Sade's Sunday best, and her eyes… let's just say, they didn't smile with the rest of her face.
"Femi, come and see this," I whispered.
He squinted. "Is that... our gate? And who's this woman looking like she swallowed secrets for breakfast?"
We showed the photo to Mama Dorcas the next morning. Her reaction?
She froze. As in, mid-sip of her agbo, cup still in the air.
"Where did you find this?" she asked slowly.
"In our room. Behind the mirror," I said.
Mama Dorcas stood up, looked around as if someone was watching her, and whispered, "That's Madam Eunice. She used to live here. Flat 2B."
Femi's mouth dropped. "Our flat?!"
Mama Dorcas nodded. "Before the repainting. She was quiet. Too quiet. People said she practised—" She made a circular motion with her hand and mouthed, juju.
I sighed. "Of course. It's always juju."
"She vanished," Mama Dorcas continued, lowering her voice. "No goodbyes. One day she just— poof—disappeared."
Aunty Sade, who had been eavesdropping from behind a curtain (yes, she moved the whole curtain with her body), burst out. "She didn't vanish o! I heard she went to marry one albino man in Cameroon. My mother told me the gist."
"Mama Sade," Mama Dorcas snapped, "how can someone vanish with her bucket and padlock and still call it marriage?"
The compound buzzed with gossip all day. Everyone had a theory:
Mr. Johnson swore she was a spy sent by the government.
Mama Chika believed she turned into a cat and now roams the fence.
Small Chinedu said she was in the mirror watching everyone bathe.
Me? I just knew one thing — that woman's energy was still hanging in our flat like stale jollof rice.
That night, I had a dream. Madam Eunice stood at the foot of our bed, pointing at the wardrobe. When I woke up, sweaty and confused, I told Femi.
"Let's check the wardrobe," I said.
He blinked at me. "What do you expect to find, Temi? A hidden diary? A ghost-shaped pepper grinder?"
But we checked. And guess what?
Behind the wardrobe panel, we found a compartment. Inside it: a stack of old letters wrapped in faded scarf material. The top letter had neat handwriting and read:
> "Do not trust the one who acts like a helper. She is the reason I vanished."
I gasped. Femi gasped. Even the gecko on the wall paused like it understood the twist.
And just when we were about to process the bombshell, a voice shouted from outside:
"Ehn ehn! So you people are now digging up secrets at midnight? Don't involve me o!"
Of course — Aunty Sade.
Drama, once again, had knocked on our compound's gate.
To be continued…
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