Chapter 8: Letting Go

As I commot, I go buy plenty spiritual money—the one wey dem dey burn for grave, so the dead fit get money for afterlife. Dem say if you burn spiritual money, your people go get am for afterlife, no go lack.

For market, I buy the one with big denomination, one thousand, five hundred, all join. The old woman wey sell am ask who I dey send money give. I just smile, say "na for my people."

I burn everything for my papa and mama grave, enough for dem to spend for hundred years.

I light the paper, the flame high. As the smoke dey rise, I dey pray say make e reach my parents for wherever dem dey. I dey whisper, "Mama, Papa, take—no let cold catch una."

After, I go house look am small.

The house dey dark, cobwebs for ceiling. The photo for wall still dey, my mama dey smile inside am. I dey look the chair wey my papa dey use sit, the cane wey e dey use walk. Everything still dey as we leave am.

Dust full everywhere.

Everywhere get that old smell—mothballs and memories. My chest tight, but I no cry.

I no clean, no touch anything.

I dey tell myself say if I touch, maybe I go break down. So I just stand, dey look.

I just stand for door, dey look, till everywhere dark finish.

The room dark, but I fit see outline of my childhood. I dey think back to small Ifeoma, before wahala begin.

For village, no streetlight. I on my phone, see say time don reach almost eleven.

The only light na from my small Nokia phone. I check time—11:00. My heart dey race. My leg dey move on its own.

I carry taxi go Palm Grove Bridge. That night, city quiet.

The road empty, the taxi man dey play low Fuji for radio. I dey look window, streetlight dey blink. I dey reason life, dey remember all the things I lose.

Sometimes, one or two okada dey zoom pass—delivery boys dey hustle.

Dem dey carry food, package, some dey even wave at me. Life still dey go on, even when your own dey pause.

I drag my box, stop for bridge.

I no send anybody. The cold breeze dey slap my face, the water below dey dark. I stand, dey look river, dey hear my own heartbeat.

Nobody send me, dem think say maybe I just dey rest with my box.

One woman dey sell gala for corner, she no even look my side. Everybody dey their own lane for Lagos.

The smell of fried plantain from roadside dey mix with the river breeze, but my mind no dey there.

I wait till midnight. Nobody pass again.

The city quiet. Even cars no dey. My spirit calm, my mind empty.

I tear small page from my jotter, write note, press am inside my old Bible for box, then I climb the railings, jump.

For the note, I write: "Mama, Papa, I dey come. Make una no vex. Ifeoma." As I climb, my heart dey beat, but my mind dey rest. Na like say all the noise for my head just stop.

As I jump, I no know if na my mind dey play trick, but I hear Seyi voice—

“Ah ah, Ifeoma, no jump!”

The voice sharp, familiar. E carry shock. But for that moment, I dey float. Whether na real or na spirit, I no fit say. But for the first time, na another person call me back from the edge.

For that split second, I dey hang between sky and water—my past and future dey drag me. I no sabi which one go win.