Chapter 1: Harmattan Memory

The year my daughter disappeared, she was just five years old.

That memory always sits heavy for my chest, like harmattan dust wey no gree clean, no matter how you sweep. Some days, as evening breeze dey whistle pass house, I go hear her laughter for inside breeze, my heart go twist with longing. For my mind, she remain five forever—small, bright-eyed, always quick to hold my wrapper and beg for story.

That day, she waka go downstairs by herself to look for me.

I remember say sun don already hot, dey shine through the staircase window, throw long stripe for the old, faded tiles. She wear her pink slippers, the ones with cartoon face. She shout, ‘Daddy, I dey come o!’ as she begin her small journey, step by step, hand hold the rail tight. If I sabi, maybe I for climb go carry her myself. But how person go know which day go turn bad day?

But for somewhere inside that long staircase, she just vanish.

The air for stairwell dey smell like old cement and kerosene smoke, like e swallow her whole. Sometimes, I feel as if the wall themselves see everything but refuse to talk. I call her name, my voice echo, but the only answer na silence and the far hum of generator outside. The emptiness choke, press me from all corner.

Even police no fit find her. The case just become one of those wey nobody solve.

Dem try—ask neighbours question, search the bush around, even call vigilante to check for any sign. Posters with her small face everywhere. But days turn to weeks, weeks to months. The case file gather dust for their table, like many others.

Not too long after, we comot from that house with our son. We never go back again.

Grief cover our family like black cloth. My wife no gree sleep for the old room; I no fit pass the staircase. Our son, Ebuka, just quiet, dey follow me everywhere. We pack what we fit, leave the rest, start new life where nobody sabi our pain. Sometimes, for night, I go hear my wife sob for pillow, wet with tears. We carry sorrow like wound wey no dey heal.

Many years later, one night, na so I just see photo wey old neighbour post.

I dey scroll phone, dey find sleep wey no come, when I see am. The same building, the same grey wall, but e don old well. My heart skip.

For the stained wall for the stairwell corner, one human face just appear.

At first, I think na ordinary water mark, those brown stain wey dey grow after rain. But this one—this one different, e dey look like person dey peep from inside wall.

E resemble my five-year-old daughter exactly.

My hand shake, phone nearly fall. My breath catch, goosebumps just rise everywhere. Na my mind dey play with me, or Ifeoma dey truly call me from that wall after all these years? The face dey look me—accusing, begging—and old wound just open again for my chest.