CHAPTER FOUR

"Oluchi... Oluchukwu..." Emezie called again, urgency tightening his voice like a noose. "You have to be strong, o. Life is not about crying every time."

I couldn't speak. The sobs came like rain on a leaking zinc roof—uninvited, relentless.

"Bia, stop crying," he said again, his tone firmer this time.

I leaned into his chest, letting the tears soak into his shirt like ink on cloth.

"Ah-ah! Stop behaving like I'm your husband," he said, a weak attempt to lighten the thick, heavy air. "Be strong. You're too emotional. Any small thing—gbam—you start crying. Life is not like that, biko. You must brace up, Oluchi."

His voice had turned stern now, edged with exhaustion.

He gently unwrapped my arms from around his waist. "I'm going, o. I'll buy fish, meat, and other things. I'll take Mama's tea and clothes to the hospital—and bring back her dirty ones."

He paused, looking at me with something between disappointment and concern. "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 came harder, deeper, as though my heart was melting from the inside.

"Ebezina," he murmured at last, voice softening. "It's okay."

Still, I cried. I couldn't stop.

"I'm going, o. I'm going." He turned and walked out through the back door.

Moments later, he came back in, quiet, collected. He gathered Mama's gowns, moving like someone wading through smoke.

"Bye," he whispered, and disappeared again.

I sat still. Then slowly, like a falling leaf, I dropped to my knees.

"God, please..." my voice broke as I whispered. "Please let nothing happen to Mama. She's all I have..."

The sobs returned, fiercer now. I curled onto the cold cement floor and wept into my palms, my body convulsing in prayer.

But something shifted—something small and silent. A flicker of calm began to settle in my chest, like early morning harmattan mist lifting. I wiped my face, steadied my breath, and made a decision.

I would go to our old house. I needed to gather the things Emezie couldn't sell.

I took a tricycle and paid ₦300 from the money he left behind. The building stood like a faded memory, hollowed out by time. I gathered what was left—some old pots, a few torn wrappers, Mama's iron bed, my books, household things, and a cracked mirror Mama once called her "truth teller."

We loaded everything into the keke and returned. I found a forgotten storeroom tucked behind Emezie's kitchen, swept away the dust, and arranged our things inside. Then I bathed—the water cool and crisp, like a quiet baptism. I laid a mat near the window and stretched out, every muscle in my body aching.

My stomach growled.

But there was nothing to eat.

I should be at the hospital, by Mama's side. But the truth? I couldn't bear to watch her suffer. Seeing her in pain was like swallowing glass.

Emezie was right—I was weak.

But somehow, in his strength, I had found refuge. He was the steady hand when mine trembled.

Maybe, just maybe, God had a plan in all this. Maybe Emezie wasn't just a friend—he was a piece of my journey.

The night deepened, blanketing the compound in shadow. I woke with a start. Emezie still hadn't returned.

Unease crawled across my skin. I untied my gown and wrapped Mama's old wrapper tightly across my chest. I reached for my small Zeal button phone and dialed his number.

Switched off.

The silence grew heavier.

I lit the lantern and placed it at the center of the room. The flame flickered against cracked walls like a prayer dancing in wind.

I picked up a sheet of paper and began to write, whispering each word like an offering:

Beans

Pepper

Onion

Kerosene

Oil

Corn

I paused. My hand trembled.

I will reopen Mama's akara business. This time, I'll fry at the junction. If luck smiles, I'll make ₦600 from akara, and ₦200 from akamu—₦800 in a day. If market no good, maybe ₦500.

I sighed deeply.

If I save for one week—₦3,000. In a month, ₦12,000. Still small... but one step, na im dey lead person reach journey end.

I looked at the time.

Still no Emezie.

My heart began to race. Had something happened? To him? To Mama? Chineke biko... I have seen enough pain in one lifetime.

I began pacing—from the kitchen door to the window—until I heard it. Footsteps. The door creaked.

Emezie stumbled in.

The bitter stench of alcohol hit me before he even spoke. He clutched a bottle as if it were the last truth left in his world.

"Chiemezie! Where are you coming from at this hour?" I ran to him.

"Nne, shift!" he snapped, swinging his arm and knocking my hand away. He staggered inside, eyes red, his gait uneven.

"You're not a drunkard. What's this? What happened to you? Talk to me!"

His face twisted, voice laced with bitterness. "Are you my wife? Eh? Stop asking me stupid questions. If you want answers—marry me first!"

He barked a harsh, humorless laugh—sharp like a cracked plate—then bent over and vomited on the cement floor.

"Emmy... Emmy..." I reached out to steady him. He shoved forward, stumbled into his room, and slammed the door.

Then—silence.

I returned to my mat by the window. I curled beside the glowing lantern and cried again—this time, silent tears that streamed down my cheeks.

Sleep found me there.

*****

I woke before him. That alone was strange.

Usually, the sun would rise halfway before my eyes opened. But this morning, something inside stirred me—sharp, clear, and hungry.

The house was still. Emezie hadn't come out.

I washed my face at the tap outside and brushed my teeth. I tied my scarf, slipped into a clean blouse, and headed to the market. The air buzzed—voices rising like birdsong, the smell of burning firewood and dried crayfish thick in the breeze.

I bought all I needed—beans, pepper, onions, oil, corn. I still had some money left.

My stomach grumbled again.

I stopped at Iya Ajibola's buka and ordered amala with ewedu—no meat. I needed to manage my funds.

The food was hot, the soup thick. I ate with quiet joy.

Then, I made my way to the hospital.

The moment I stepped into the ward, I felt it—the shift. A hush. All eyes turned. Someone whispered, "Na she be the grandpikin." The ward attendant looked at me strangely.

My heart began to pound.

I rushed to Mama's bedside.

She lay still, eyes closed, breath shallow.

"Mama... Good morning," I said, voice shaking.

No response.

"Mama," I tried again, louder. "I'm here, o."

I touched her gently, then firmer.

Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open. She looked at me—and smiled.

"Nwa m... how are you?" she whispered.

I choked on relief. "I'm fine, Mama."

Just then, a nurse approached, beaming. "Your mama kept us company last night o. She told us proper moonlight story. Even Nurse Popoke laughed until her sides hurt. All the patients clapped."

The others nearby nodded, chuckling. I smiled. The knot in my chest began to unravel.

The nurse reminded me it was time for her bed bath. I helped, chatting with Mama as we worked. A second nurse came in to change her bandages.

"Mama, have you eaten?"

She nodded. "Emezie brought pepper soup last night... with fish and meat. It's still in the flask."

My eyes widened. "He did?"

She smiled faintly. "He's a good boy. Chineke ga-agọzi ya."

"Amen," I whispered.

One of the nurses said, "Her wound is healing very well. A few days ago, they were talking amputation."

She smiled kindly. "Your prayers are working, my dear."

"Thank you," I said, voice thick with emotion. "You and Nurse Popoke are doing God's work. May He bless you."

She nodded and moved on.

Mama sipped the remaining soup. Her face softened, satisfied.

We talked the entire morning—her voice stronger, laughter blooming in the air.

Then she asked, "Did your mother call?"

"No, Mama," I shook my head. "She didn't."

Mama scoffed. "So Beatrice would just leave me here to die, eh?"

"Die kwa? Mama, you can't die—unless God says it's your time. I'm here."

She paused. Then I asked, gently, "Mama... what about my father? Do you have any number I could use—or anything?"

Her eyes sharpened.

"Kpuchie ọnụ!" she barked. "Don't mention that man again."

I froze.

"Focus on yourself. That man ran off to America and left your mother to suffer alone."

Her voice softened.

"Nwa m... gather your strength. Life is not beans. You must fight. Look at me—I may soon go. But you? You must stand."

I held her hand tightly. It was warm and dry.

Around us, the ward was brighter than it had been in days. Mama's wound no longer stank. The air no longer smelled of death.

Was this not God?

Just then, the door opened.

Emezie walked in.

"Mama, good afternoon," he greeted.

"Ehen! Nwa m, how are you?" Mama beamed.

"Fine," he said, then looked at me. "Oluchi."

I didn't answer.

"Oluchi," he called again, his voice quieter. "Let me see you. Let's talk."

I turned away.

"Mama, what would you like to eat now?" I asked, ignoring him.

Mama frowned. "Oluchukwu, he's talking to you."

I sighed and rose slowly.

And followed him out.