Chapter 2: The Price of Silence

When they pull my daughter from the river,

I refuse when dem say dem wan do autopsy. I act sharp-sharp, arrange her burial after pastor pray. I no want her body cut open; make she rest whole, no scatter. Some elders frown, but I stand my ground—my word na final. Pastor voice heavy with tiredness, his hands dey shake as he sprinkle sand and quote Psalm 23. My mind drift; I just wan make the whole matter end.

When my ex-wife reach, she slap me twice, cry like say her chest go burst: “Why you no gree for autopsy?

How she take die? Bring my daughter back for me!

You Chijioke, I no suppose leave that child for you. You… you no go ever see your daughter again for this life!”

Her voice na thunder—unforgiving, sharp, the sound echo down the compound. Neighbours peep window, some dey murmur prayer, others just shake head and look away. The pain for her cry raw, like when cassava dey grate too close to finger.

My face still dey hot from her slap, but I coldly push the small casket to her: “If you want am, take.” The casket light, but my hands dey tremble like say e weigh thousand stones. Nothing more to talk; grief don build wall between us higher than tallest iroko.

I think say this one go just pass like other wahala, fade with time.

After all, with exam near, nothing dey more important than school. Every parent for our street dey hustle so their pikin go pass, make poverty no catch them for hand. For my mind, I try bury the pain under daily struggle, dey tell myself say time go smooth the wound like rain over old footpath.

But next day, police still come my house.

“Mr. Chijioke, we dey suspect say your daughter no jump river because of normal school pressure.” The officer face tight, no smile. Their uniform carry the scent of starch and long hours. My heart skip like old generator—sometimes e work, sometimes e fail.

The policewoman bring out one video—security camera recording.

Inside the video, two people force my daughter kneel down, dey slap her. The same fingers wey dey write sweet essay, now dem dey grind am under one fine white canvas shoe.

The girl wey wear the white shoe smile talk: “Ngozi, I tell you make you no dey follow class prefect.”

“Bisi, you forget say some small witch no fit survive without man, haha…”

The video stop there, but everybody fit imagine wetin come next.

The air for my parlour heavy after the video play. For a moment, only my shallow breathing dey sound. My head spin, old pain mix with new anger, but I just sit—frozen, no fit do anything.

The policewoman eye full with anger, but I still refuse their help. She lean in, voice low: “Oga, no let them sweep this thing under carpet.” But I just shake my head, fear and shame lock my mouth. Sometimes, silence dey safer than truth.

I no expect say after I send her away, the policewoman go meet my ex-wife.

Inside court, as my ex-wife dey cry dey shout, everybody for there feel am. The air thick with pity, some people wipe their eyes with edge of wrapper. Even court clerk pen pause, the sound of her sobs fill the room like rainy season thunder.

But the three girls wey dey defendant bench just dey look, like say nothing concern them. Dem cross leg, dey check their nails, dey whisper as if dem dey gist about party. The indifference bite deep; some elders for gallery dey mutter curse under breath.

The one wey lead them na Bisi Adekunle.

That time, she dey chew gum, dey look my ex-wife dey shout like say she be clown. Bisi just look her with small smile: “Aunty, na Ngozi jump river by herself. How e take concern us?”

“We just dey play with her.”

“Who know say she go weak like that? Na our fault?”

Her words sting, each sentence like slap. Some parents for courtroom shake head; one woman hiss so loud judge glance up. This new generation, dem say, no dey fear anybody again.

My ex-wife scream, face twist: “Play? You kill person!”

Her cry make judge vex, he knock table: “Order! Make una maintain order for court.”

The gavel sound bounce off wall, but the pain for her voice no fade. I see judge face—tired, maybe even sorry, but bound by procedure. This no be Nollywood, where justice dey quick and hot.

Bisi just squeeze face, dey clean ear, her eye full of pride: “Aunty, abeg no dey shout for my head~”

“If you get anything to talk, talk to my papa lawyer.”

“If e too pain you, I fit dash you like fifty or hundred thousand from my pocket money.”

Her arrogance make the whole courtroom shift. Some cough in disbelief; others look away, no fit watch pikin disrespect elder openly. The lawyer beside her smile small, adjust agbada, dey wait make commotion die.

My ex-wife eye red, like say she fit tear person that minute.

But I hold her well, whisper: “Enough, no shame us finish.”

My hands shake as I grip her arm, her tears soak my shirt. I try steady her, but my own knees weak. Family shame worse than poverty for this town, and I pray silently make nobody remember our face after today.

She look me like stranger: “Chijioke, na your own daughter—”

But court no grant her wish for heavy punishment.

Evidence no strong, and the three girls get rich parents. Dem ready to pay money wey I no fit reject.

Compensation reach 1.5 million naira.

Even Old Musa, my workmate wey fall from scaffold for site, only collect 1.2 million. The crowd whisper compare—“See am, one pikin life more than another man own.” Some call am injustice, others just sigh and count their own luck.

So, when their lawyer push agreement give me, I sign am sharp.

Everybody dey look me like thief, my face just dey greedy, I lick my dry lips: “Her life don go, but those wey dey alive no suppose join suffer, abi?”

The pen felt heavy, as if I was signing away not just money, but my place among the living. I remembered Ngozi’s laughter echoing in the corridor, and for a moment, I almost tore the paper. My lips dry, and I taste salt—maybe sweat, maybe tears wey I refuse make e fall. The room spin, but I no show am; man must strong, even when world dey fall apart.