CHAPTER THREE

"Oluchi," Emezie said, rocking gently in his late father's wooden chair, the worn leather creaking beneath him, "tomorrow, I'll go sell the rest of our things. Bring Mama's clothes and yours; I'll handle the valuables. I've saved eighteen thousand naira these past two months—we can add that to the pot."

A wave of gratitude swelled in my chest. "Emezie, thank you. Truly. God will bless you for all you're doing."

He waved it off with a half-laugh. "Ah, no need for that. Mama is a mother to me, too."

A comfortable silence followed, wrapping us like a familiar blanket. Then, he broke it with a mischievous grin. "You know, you're really beautiful."

"Emezie, you've started again," I teased, rolling my eyes.

"I mean it! If you ever smelled real money, you'd outshine Miss America."

We laughed, the sound echoing in the small room like a song only we understood.

I let the moment settle before I spoke again. "You know my father isn't Nigerian, right? But Mama told me my surname is Amuneke. That's all I have of him. He never paid her bride price."

He frowned slightly. "Wait. If your father's not Nigerian, why does he have an Igbo name like Amuneke?"

I shrugged, the familiar ache of unanswered questions surfacing. "I honestly don't know."

Emezie studied me carefully. "Your features… they're not completely Nigerian. Your eyes, your hair, your skin. Are you sure that's the whole story?"

"I've asked Mama before, but…" I trailed off.

He didn't press further. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me if you're not ready."

I nodded, but the silence had weight now. I inhaled slowly and spoke.

"Mama told me my mother met him at a club. He'd just returned from America, rich and flashy. He asked the manager for her, but she refused. She was deeply religious, a Pentecostal woman who wouldn't give herself to any man. The manager gave her an ultimatum—comply or lose the job and the accommodation the club provided. She stayed."

I paused, then continued. "Eventually, they started dating. He opened a shop for her. Mama said she even traveled to Dubai to restock. She was thriving. Then she got pregnant—with me. Things took a turn. My father became ill and had to return to the States. They kept in touch at first. But then… a pastor told my mother that her mother had cast a spell against her rising fortune. She went into shock, gave birth to me prematurely, and refused to eat or accept Mama's care. One day, she vanished from the hospital."

I took a shaky breath. "Mama raised me. Said later a friend of my mother's gave her a new number and told her the shop had burned down. She was back in the club life. When Mama called, my mother told her never to contact her again."

The room felt smaller now. My voice hung between us, heavy and raw.

Emezie pulled me into an embrace, his voice low. "Nne, I'm here. Always. You're not alone."

We slipped into his room that night, sharing the same bed. He held me close, and for a moment, the world's noise melted away. While he drifted into sleep, I lay awake wondering if the nurse remembered to feed Mama. Eventually, sleep claimed me, too.

******

By morning, Emezie was gone. I guessed he'd gone to the market. I spent the morning cleaning—sweeping, mopping, and polishing every surface. I finished the last of the soup with some akpu, washed the dishes, and finally collapsed into a chair with a sense of quiet accomplishment.

In his room, I spotted a photo album resting on a blue plastic table. Curiosity nudged me. I flipped it open and smiled at childhood snapshots of Emezie and his sister, Anulika. But then my hand paused on a photo: Emezie and a stunning woman locked in a romantic pose.

"His girlfriend?" I whispered to myself, heart sinking.

A playful thought crossed my mind. "If not for my good upbringing, I would have seduced this boy." I chuckled quietly, shaking my head.

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around me, covering my eyes.

"Emezie!" I gasped.

"Yes, lazy girl. I brought your clothes," he teased, dropping the bundle on the bed.

"Lazy? Me? I was waiting for you!"

He laughed, then his tone shifted. "I have good news. I sold the long chair and Mama's Hollandais wrappers. Added my savings. We have the full amount."

I froze. It felt unreal.

"One hundred and seventy-five thousand naira?" I murmured, the words catching in my throat.

"Yes," he confirmed. "How I did it? Doesn't matter now. Just remember, you're my sister. Maka Chukwu, don't worry."

Emotion choked me. I threw my arms around him, a mix of relief and love pouring out. His words echoed—You're my sister. But they stung, too.

My gaze drifted back to the album. "You really enjoyed university," I said, flipping another page. "But you looked so slim here. Who's this girl?"

He peered over my shoulder. "That's Winifred. My girlfriend back in school."

"Back in school?"

"Yes. She left me for a richer man. Life, huh?"

I sighed. "People can be heartless."

He changed the subject. "I bought ukpa and bread. Let's eat, then head to the hospital."

We ate in silence. Then we bathed, dressed, and set off with a raffia basket containing stir-fried greens and plenty of ukpa.

As we walked, I glanced at him tapping away on his small Zeal Android phone, the screen cracked but still functional. My heart tugged with emotion. How could someone give so much, love so selflessly?

I remembered when his mother last visited. She pressed two thousand naira into my hand and whispered, "Use this till Mama gets better." No one knew then how much worse things would get. Yet here we were.

At the hospital, Mama had already been cleaned up. She looked better—alert. Hope shimmered faintly in her eyes.

"Mama!" I called, rushing to her side. I held her carefully.

"Mama, the money is complete. We'll do the surgery. You'll be fine. You'll leave this place soon."

Her smile faded. "Surgery?"

"Yes," I said. "They'll amputate the leg, and after that—"

"Cut kwa? No o! Mbanu! It can never be me!" she screamed, her voice rising to panic.

Nurses hurried in. White uniforms and gentle hands tried to calm her, but she cried out, trembling.

I stood still, tears streaming down my cheeks. Emezie gripped my hand, anchoring me.

"Nurse, what's happening?" I asked, turning to Nurse Popoke.

She sighed. "She's not emotionally ready. We need to talk."

I followed her through the corridor to a small room where a team of professionals stood.

"Good day," I greeted.

"Good day, Annabelle," they chorused.

A tall doctor stepped forward. His tag read Dr. Auta.

"We can't proceed with the surgery," he said gently. "Her reaction shows she's not prepared. And to be honest, it was never finalized. We were still evaluating the risks."

He paused, glancing at his team.

"She could suffer a stroke. Her healing might be slow. She could go into shock. It's too risky. We've decided to continue conservative management."

I stood silently.

"Her sugar levels and blood pressure are now stable," he added. "Your careful diet is working. Keep it up. She'll be discharged soon."

The pharmacist explained the new medications and their side effects. The resident doctor and Nurse Popoke apologized for the earlier confusion.

I nodded, unable to speak. A knot of disappointment and relief sat in my chest.

The team filed out to check on Mama. I followed, the sound of their footsteps ahead of me.

Hope hadn't completely vanished—but it had shape-shifted once again, into something uncertain and quietly enduring.