Chapter 5: Eight Years Later

Eight years don pass, I never forget that day.

Every anniversary, I dey count the days, dey light candle for small altar. I dey hold old photo of my mama and papa, dey rub the edge, dey beg God make I fit see dem for dream.

I sit up for bed, check my phone—just four in the morning.

My body dey weak, sleep no dey come. The air for my small room dey heavy, wall paint don dey peel. My phone light dey shine like torch for darkness.

For empty room, I call soft soft, pain full my voice, “Papa, Mama...”

Na habit. Sometimes I go just whisper, dey hope say their spirit go answer me. But na silence always reply me.

As usual, nobody answer me.

The room just quiet, only fan dey make noise. I dey expect even if na one cockroach go crawl talk as spirit, but nothing.

I just lower my head.

My hair dey fall for my face, I no bother brush am. I dey sit, dey rock myself small.

For eight years...

Na eight years I don dey live like this—no mama, no papa, only memory.

Dem never show for my dream even once.

I dey try sleep, I dey beg, I dey pray. I no fit see their face. Na only darkness dey come.

For my dream, na only Seyi dey appear, with that mocking smile, eye full of scorn, dey laugh dey ask me, “Ifeoma, you no get shame?”

Na the same dream, every time. Seyi go just stand for one corner, dey point finger, dey smile that yeye smile. My heart go dey beat.

Any time I shout back say I get, na so the dream go end.

As I wan talk, "I get!" na so everything go fade. Sleep go vanish from my eye.

I no fit sleep, so I get up pack my things.

I arrange my small bag, fold my wrapper. I dey set my mind for journey, because na only waka dey help me forget small pain.

After I manage do my papa and mama burial that year, I commot from that place.

I no fit stay. Too many memory. Even rain for zinc go sound like my mama voice. I tell my uncle say I dey go city, I go try survive.

I go another city, dey work and go school at the same time.

Morning, I dey sell akara for junction, afternoon, I dey go polytechnic. Sometimes, I dey wash cloth for people. Life no soft, but I dey manage.

To balance both no easy.

I dey sleep small, dey work big. My fingers dey always peel from soap, but na the only way I fit chop.

But I no fit stop. If I stop, I go just break down cry.

Sometimes, I go sit for gutter dey cry, but before anybody see me, I go clean face, stand up, go sell again.

I go hospital; doctor say I get moderate depression, say I need person to help me move on from that day.

The doctor na old woman, she look me finish, write small medicine. E talk say make I try dey talk to person, but who I go talk to? Nobody get my story.

But person like that no dey.

I try, I join church group, I even try online forum, but nobody really understand. So I just dey carry my own wahala.

After eight years, my mind dey always dey go back—I wan see the river where my papa and mama enter.

Na that river, na there my heart dey rest. Sometimes I dey imagine say if I see am, maybe peace go enter me.

I even dey think make I enter too, ask them why dem do me like that.

I dey always wonder—why dem leave me? Why dem no wait? The thought dey disturb me.

I dey really tired...

My body dey move, but my spirit dey weak. Even food no dey sweet me again.

Since I go go back, I say make I see my old classmates join.

I dey reason say, maybe, if I see all of them, I go fit drop small pain, leave old wound for behind.

So, when class captain ask if I go come reunion, na me first say yes.

My mind shock me as I reply sharp sharp. Normally, I no dey follow all these kind event. But this time, e be like say spirit push me.

For eight years, I never talk for WhatsApp group. I delete all my classmates—including Seyi.

If anybody mention Seyi for group, I just dey read and scroll pass. I no fit keep that pain for my heart.