Chapter 4: The Hair Clip

"E no be anything, Tunde. You fit go first, thank you."

I try sound normal, no wan drag am enter my wahala. But my eyes no gree leave the patch, dey search for face inside the mess.

I stand, dey look the wall, dey try use my mind see Ifeoma face for the stain.

I press my hand for wall, dey hope say hidden warmth or sign go show. My chest tight, I dey long for anything—any small thing—to hold on.

I miss her too much.

One big sigh come out. Memory rush me—her small hand dey plait my beard, her laugh dey echo for corridor, her stubborn wahala about school bag.

Tunde talk from behind,

"I go make tea. Since you dey here, come chop one cup before you go."

His voice gentle, offer comfort. Tunde sabi when to give space and when to stay. I nod, thank am for patience.

I hear am waka go down.

Him slippers dey shuffle for tile, sound fade as he go. For small moment, na only me, wall and ghost dey there.

I step closer to wall, stretch hand touch the mark...

Wall cold, rough for my finger. I close eye, try hear her voice, feel her presence. Only silence and faint drip of water up.

I think maybe I go feel something special.

But wall no give anything—no spark, no warmth, just cold. But my heart no gree accept.

Nothing dey. Na just cold, ordinary wall.

I sigh, let hand fall. The pain just dey pulse, stubborn.

If Ifeoma dey alive, by now she for don be twelve. Suppose don tall, fine, dey enjoy life...

I picture am—tall, maybe with her mama cheekbone, my stubborn chin. Maybe she go dey braid hair for new style, sing Davido or Tiwa Savage. Dreams lost, birthday miss.

I lower head, turn, wan go down.

Feet heavy, I ready return to normal world, pretend for another day.

But behind me, one soft voice just talk:

"Daddy, you finally find me?"

The voice light like feather, but e hit me for chest. Body freeze, all sense dey alert. World just pause, like time hold breath.

Na like thunder strike me. I freeze.

I turn slow, heart dey pound loud. I scan the empty stairwell, dey find source of the voice wey I sabi pass my own.

That voice—I no fit ever forget, even if I die.

Her voice be melody I never hear for years, but every note remain for my soul. I feel tears dey burn my eye.

Na Ifeoma voice.

No mistake—the lilt, the small hiccup for excitement. I whisper her name, voice dey shake.

I turn sharp, but nothing dey.

Only wall, battered and quiet, dey face me. Stairwell empty except old memory and my heart wey dey run.

But for wall, that stain—

E dey peel small small.

I see edge of patch dey flake, small gap dey open for where plaster meet block. E look like mouth dey try talk.

I waka go, for the crumbling dust inside wall crack, I see something.

My hand dey shake as I reach, dey scrape the fragile plaster, heart dey beat for each dust wey fall.

I dig am out with all my power. Na hair clip.

E pop out—small, plastic, full of dust and memory. I hold am for palm, breath catch.

Pink hair clip.

Na the one I buy for her last birthday, bright and fine. As I see am, memory flash—how Ifeoma go dance round parlour, clip shine for her hair, before she run go hug her mama. My hand shake as I hold am, no know if I go laugh or cry.

I squeeze am tight—promise myself, I no go rest till I find the truth, even if e kill me.