"Oluchi... I'm sorry about yesterday," Emezie said quietly, his voice weighed down by something I could not yet name. He could not look me in the eye. His head hung low, his breath slow and heavy, as though the words themselves were too heavy for his chest.
I stared at him, stunned. "Emezie," I called, my voice laced with worry and disbelief. "When did you start drinking? Since when did you begin to stagger home like this?"
His shoulders trembled slightly, but he remained silent.
"Is this a part of you I've never known?" I pressed on, stepping closer to him. "Because I am shocked, truly. You frightened me yesterday, you know. Is something wrong? What is it? Why would you come home like that... drunk, lost, like a man carrying a burden too heavy for his bones?"
Then he looked up at me — slowly — and his eyes were red, swollen, and glistening. His lips trembled as he parted them. "Oluchi," he said in a strained voice that cracked mid-sentence, "my mother is dead."
I froze.
"Dead?" I echoed, a chill sweeping through my entire body. "God forbid it! Ogini? What are you saying? Stop that, Emezie, don't say such a thing!"
"My mother died yesterday," he said again, louder this time, as tears spilled from his eyes. "Oluchi... Nne m anwụọla."
The words hit me like a hurricane. My legs felt weak. I reached for the edge of the wall to steady myself.
"I left the hospital in the morning, and just a few hours later, Sister Anulika called me," he continued, struggling to steady his breath. "She said Mama didn't wake up... They rushed her back to the hospital, but it was too late. She was already gone."
He paused, sniffled, then looked away again. "She had stopped taking her antihypertensive drugs, Oluchi. That silent thing — high blood pressure — it crept up and snatched her away. Just like that."
My hand covered my mouth. The shock wrapped around me like harmattan wind — sharp and dry and unrelenting.
"I'm now an orphan, Nne," he whispered.
That was all he said before his legs gave in and he sat on the floor like a broken child. I dropped to my knees beside him and drew him into a tight embrace. His body heaved against mine with sobs that refused to be tamed. And there, in the middle of the narrow hospital terrace we wept together — two souls caught in the storm of grief, bound by love and loss.
We held each other for what felt like an eternity, our tears mingling in silence until I found my voice again.
"What of Sister Anuli?" I asked softly. "How is she holding up?"
"I don't know," he replied hoarsely. "When she called me, she couldn't speak. She just cried. Her husband said we need to fix a meeting — to discuss burial arrangements and all that, they would be coming home tomorrow afternoon".
He pulled away from me slightly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Then he shook his head slowly. "That's it, o. Mama left for omugwo, just like that. That was the last time I saw her... I never imagined it would be the final goodbye."
His voice cracked again, and he turned his face away as more tears slid down. "Mama Anuli never looked sick," he said bitterly. "Not once. She was never even hospitalised. She just... died. Like that. Just like that."
I sat there, numb.
Life, I thought. It does not even knock before entering. It comes with its claws, tearing things apart in a heartbeat. It snatches, and it does not ask permission.
"Nna, please..." I said to him gently, placing a hand on his chest, "don't let my own mother hear this now. Not yet. Her heart is still fragile."
He nodded slowly, understanding the weight of what I had said.
I reached for a clean cloth and wiped his tear-streaked face. Then we stood — slowly, silently — and walked back to Mama's bedside. Her chest rose and fell gently, unaware of the storm that had passed through our home.
And in that moment, I realised — grief does not always come with thunder. Sometimes, it arrives in silence, sits in your living room, and refuses to leave.
Emezie, you don't look okay. Are you fine? Mama asked.
"I'm fine, Mama," he replied, his voice soft.
"Mama, Emezie is sick. His eyes are itching him badly. I think it's the weather and the dust," I said. "But don't worry, I'll go home with him so he can rest."
Mama nodded slowly. "Okay, nwa m. You both should take care."
"Be well oh, nna," she said to Emezie.
He nodded without speaking.
We walked to the nurse's station, and she handed us Mama's bill for medication and care. Emezie paid, and we both left the hospital.
When we got to his house, Emezie sank into his bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. I went to the kitchen and heated water for both of us to bathe. Then I went back to his room and called him.
He picked up his towel and walked to the bathroom. He stayed there for almost an hour. When he finally came out, he went straight to his room without a word.
I took my own bath, then returned to the kitchen. I made moi moi, packed Mama's portion in a flask, added vegetable sauce and some eggs. Then I called Emezie to eat and left for the hospital.
The walk back felt like a very long journey. Flashbacks of Mama Anulika kept flooding my mind—how she used to come to our house so she and Mama could attend the women's meeting together. I remembered Anulika's wedding. We didn't have money for the asoebi, but she bought for both Mama and me and gave it to us with a smile.
I remembered when Emezie and I were still young. She would prepare abacha for him to take to school, and always packed some for me too. She used to tease me, saying she'd marry me off to Emezie, even if he didn't want to get married.
She was such a huge part of my life. I felt a deep ache, a raw wound in my chest. A great eagle had fallen.
O Mama Anuli...
When I reached the hospital, they told me Mama's blood pressure had shot up. She was reacting badly to the blood transfusion and had started having seizures. They had rushed her to the ICU.
"ICU as how?!" I cried to the nurse.
I dropped the food beside her bed and ran to the ICU, but they didn't let me in.
I peeped through the small glass window. Doctors and nurses surrounded her. Everyone was doing something, moving urgently.
What is going on?
I fell to my knees in front of the ICU. Tears streamed down my face. I began to pray.
"Jesus, do something. Lord, please."
I cried. I screamed. I sang worship.
The screen lit up with Emezie's name as I tapped the call button again—my fingers trembling. One ring. Two. Three.
No answer.
I hit redial.
Still nothing.
Twenty-two times. I called him twenty-two times, and not once did he pick up. My heart pounded with a mix of panic and helplessness. I needed someone. Anyone. I needed to not be alone.
I took a shaky breath and dialed my mother's number. The call connected after a single ring.
"Mummy… Mama is in the ICU," I sobbed.
There was a pause on the other end. Then her voice, cold and cutting:
"ICU? Hmph. She has started reaping the nemesis of her evil. She will die there. Evil woman."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone like it had betrayed me, then let it fall to my lap. My mother's words stung deeper than I expected. Not that she and Mama had ever been close, but… this? This was cruel.
I wiped my tears and looked up at the glowing red ICU sign above the heavy doors. I sat there, shoulders hunched, my body trembling. My lips moved automatically, whispering prayers I no longer remembered how to say. I hummed the only hymns I could recall, rocking gently like a child.
Then the door creaked open.
Dr. Auta stepped out, his expression unreadable. "Annabelle, right?" he asked softly.
I nodded.
"Please follow me."
I rose slowly and followed him down the corridor. His office was dimly lit, sterile, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above. We sat opposite each other. The chair beneath me felt too small, too stiff. My hands gripped the fabric of my skirt as I waited for his words.
He took a deep breath.
"Your mother's sugar level had stabilized," he began gently. "Her body was responding to treatment. But we noticed her PCV was low. She needed a transfusion. Her blood pressure was high—150 over 100 this morning—but we were managing it. Then… she started reacting to the blood. A series of seizures followed."
My breath hitched.
"We tried our best," he said. "But I'm sorry… we lost her."
Silence.
No. No, that's not how this ends.
"She had a minor cut," I murmured. "It became a wound and we came here. You said she needed amputation. I went and begged, sold everything, brought the money. Then you said she didn't need the surgery anymore—that she was better. I saw her this morning. She was fine. She was laughing. No fever. Nothing! Now you're telling me… she's dead?"
My voice cracked on the last word.
"No," I said again, rising to my feet. "That's not possible. Not my Mama!"
I lunged forward and grabbed his collar, shaking with rage and disbelief. "You must give me my mother today! Do you hear me? You must!"
He gently took my hands, trying to calm me. His eyes looked sincere, but I didn't care. Nothing could undo what I had just heard.
I staggered out of his office as they moved Mama's body to the mortuary. They handed me the final bill like it was nothing more than a receipt.
I walked aimlessly, my legs barely moving beneath me, until I reached the church.
St. Phebian's Catholic Church stood quiet under the evening sky. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was cool, the scent of incense clinging to the walls. I walked down the aisle, past empty pews, and collapsed at the altar.
"God, why?" I screamed. "Why her? Why now?"
I wept until my voice broke. I cried until my chest ached and my eyes burned. Then, I slept. Curled at the foot of the altar like a broken thing.
The world could end, and I wouldn't have noticed.
I woke up to my phone ringing. My eyes were swollen, my head heavy from crying myself to sleep at the altar of St. Phebian's. I didn't even know when I passed out there on the cold marble floor.
The phone kept buzzing until I reached for it with shaky fingers.
Emezie.
I swallowed hard and answered.
"Oluchi, where are you?" his voice carried worry, thick and heavy.
"The church," I whispered.
"I'm coming there now."
"No… I'll come home."
"I'll meet you," he said before the line went dead.
Just after I dropped the phone, Father Benedict entered. His white cassock swept the floor as he approached slowly, like he didn't want to startle me.
"My daughter," he said softly. "I heard what happened."
I broke again.
I told him everything—my mother's cruelty, Mama's sudden death, the helplessness I felt as the doctor gave me her death like it was hospital routine. He listened like a father, eyes calm, heart open.
"Ọnwụ dị ka ifufe," he said, his voice steady. "Death is like the wind—it blows and takes, but it cannot carry away love. You must not lose hope."
I nodded, even though hope felt like ash in my mouth.
When Emezie arrived, I didn't say anything. I just stood up and fell into his arms. He didn't ask me questions. He didn't speak. He just held me like I was the only thing left in the world.
He took my hand, and he carried me home.
Back at the compound, the elders had called a family meeting. The air was tense, filled with sighs and low murmurs. Anulika and her husband had come. Indeed bad news spread so fast. Everyone knew the story—how Mama Beatrice and Mama Anulika were best friends for years, how they both loved each other. But now, both were gone.
It was agreed. They would be buried side by side. Two women, two histories, one soil.
The village people came in numbers. Some I had never seen before. Mama's old friends from the women's fellowship in St. Phebian's, our landlord from our former yard in town—even some of the tenants. Mummy Chioma from next door brought two kegs of palm wine. Oga Amadi, the landlord, pressed a brown envelope into my hand and said, "Use this for your tomorrow, Oluchi."
People donated money, rice and drinks. Some brought yams. Others just came to cry with me. That was more than enough.
Emezie stood strong like a man, he co-ordinated everything, he lost his mother too but he didn't pay on the ground to cry like Anulika and I.
"Chineke ga-eme gị ebere," they said. God will show you mercy.
A week later, Emezie and Anulika husband had finished with the preparations.
The day of the burial mass had finally come, the church was full.
Women tied white ichafu on their heads and sat with baskets of kolanut and bitter kola. Emezie held my hand and we sad together in black beside Anulika and her husband.The choir sang slow hymns, their voices breaking like mine had. Anulika held her newborn twins wrapped on her chest and back. She was quiet all morning, holding in her grief like a calabash filled with hot water.
But when they brought her mother's's coffin out… she broke.
"Mama m ooooo!" she screamed, falling to her knees and grabbing the polished wood. "Ah, you left us! Mama, ị hapụla anyị! Don't leave us!"
Her wrapper came undone as she held onto the coffin, wailing until she had to be pulled away by three women.
I couldn't cry. I had no more tears. I just stood there, watching my grandmother's coffin descend slowly into the red earth. I wanted to jump in after her. I wanted to say, "Mama, biko… don't go yet. I still need you."
But I said nothing.
Emezie made sure everything turned out well, the burial was a success. Anulika and her family planned to leave in two days.
The days after the burial were the hardest.
At night, sleep ran from me like a thief. I would lie on the mat in Emezie's room,we didn't share the bed anymore. I stared at the ceiling, praying for silence in my soul. But grief has a voice—it whispers and shouts, all at once.
Sometimes I would cry until morning. Sometimes I would sit outside in the compound, listening to the owls, the crickets, the distant chants of night prayers from other homes.
Emezie was always there.
He would bring me hot water in a flask. Sit beside me. Rub my back. Say nothing. Just sit.
One night I whispered, "Emezie, do you think they're in heaven ?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "I think they are at peace because they left us behind. And we are strong."
The people gossiped saying the burial was beautiful. That we honored both women with dignity. They said it brought peace and unity between two bloodlines. I didn't care for their politics. I just wanted my Mama back.
But life kept moving.
I overhead Anulika's husband advising Emezie to marry me and take me as his wife, since Emezie confided in him that he had feelings for me. But I didn't want anything like marriage at the moment I just wanted to heal, I walked passed them as though I didn't hear anything.
After a month, Emezie started a teaching job. The children at St. Dominic's Secondary School liked him. He smiled more now, but his eyes still carried the weight of what we had buried.
I started waking up early to fry akara and make akamu to sell at the market square. I tied my scarf tight, bathed in cold water, and carried my basin with strength I didn't know I had.
Some mornings I would catch women whispering.
"See that girl. Na she wey bury her Mama last month."
"Chai. Life no easy."
But many of them bought from me. Some even sat and talked. Every morning, I rebuilt myself—small piece by small piece—between hot oil and boiling pap.
And still, every night before I sleep, I whisper:
Mama, I hope you can see me.
I'm still here. I'm trying.