What's my Crime ?

Chapter Six: The Words She Left Behind

The rain had returned.

Soft at first, like whispered apologies falling from the sky. Chuka sat on the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the tiny droplets sliding down the windowpane like tear trails. It had rained on his tenth birthday, too. The day The Hinge had torn something from him, something he couldn’t even name.

Now, days had passed, maybe weeks. Time was a fog. He walked, ate, slept, and smiled when required. But inside, a silence deeper than words held him prisoner. He had not told anyone. Not even her, (his mother).

Her face came back to him in fragments, warm laughter, the softness of her hand, the subtle scent of lemon oil she used on her hair. And most of all, her voice. That day, in Chapter one, the day before he left for the city of Kozra, she had knelt beside him, holding both his hands tightly, almost as if she knew something terrible was coming but still entrusted Chuka to Sandra.

"I will always be with you, Chuka," she had whispered. Even when you can’t see me. Even when it’s dark."

He blinked fast, jaw clenched. Those words haunted him now. If she were truly with him, then why had she let it happen? Why didn’t she stop it? Wasn’t a mother’s love stronger than anything? Wasn’t it supposed to protect?

He wanted to tell her. Desperately. But the words refused to come. Every time he opened his mouth, his voice would shrink. He would feel that hot shame crawl over his skin, like invisible hands still holding him down.

What if she didn’t believe him?

What if she cried?

What if she looked at him differently?

So he remained silent.

Chuka clutched the edge of his bed tightly, his fingernails digging into the thin mattress. The house was quiet. Sandra had traveled with Aisha for a conference, or so they said. Bella and Mira had stopped visiting frequently. For now.

He was alone. With his thoughts. With the memory.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would imagine his mother standing at the foot of his bed, glowing softly, reaching for him. He would whisper into the darkness, "Mama... can you hear me?"

No answer ever came.

But still, her words lingered. I will always be with you.

He tried to believe it. He held on to it like a rope dangling above the ocean. Because if he didn’t, if he truly believed he was alone, he didn’t know what would become of him.

One evening, he picked up a pen and began to write in his old notebook. It was the one his mother had packed for him before he left Umuagu. The pages still smelled faintly of home. He didn't write what happened, not yet, but he wrote how he felt.

"I feel like something inside me has died. But I can’t say what. Or why. I’m not the same boy anymore. I think they broke me. But maybe not fully. Because I’m still here. And I still hear her voice."

He stopped and stared at the page, then slowly closed the book. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since that day. Not even once. He feared that if he ever started, he might never stop.

Later that night, he dreamt again. A hallway, long and dim. At the end, a woman stood facing away from him, her back straight, her head tilted as if listening. He ran toward her, calling her name,"Mama! Mama, please!" but the hallway stretched endlessly. He never reached her.

When he woke up, there was a single word stuck in his head:

"Speak."

But still, he couldn’t.

And so the days passed. He carried his shame like a second skin, invisible to the world but suffocating. He learned to pretend better. He learned when to smile, when to laugh at jokes he didn’t find funny. He kept his notebook hidden beneath the loose floorboard near his bed.

But something inside him had shifted.

He began to watch people more closely, how they moved, how they lied, how they reacted under pressure. He paid attention to patterns, to silences, to expressions that didn't match the words.

He wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was learning.

And though he hadn’t yet spoken of the horror he endured, something else had been born in the quiet.

A promise.

To himself.

To her.

That he would remember everything.

Because one day, when the time was right, he would not remain silent.

He would make them hear him.

He would make them pay.

Back at school, everything felt different. The teachers still called his name, still handed him assignments, but Chuka barely responded. His handwriting had grown smaller, his eyes always glued to the margins of the paper. When it was time for games, he’d stand at the edge of the field, watching other boys kick a ball, scream in delight, laugh, things that now felt foreign to him.

Mrs. Okon, his English teacher, noticed. She once called him aside after class, her eyes kind and searching.

“Is everything okay at home?” she asked.

Chuka had only nodded, forcing the smallest smile. “Yes, ma.”

She didn’t press, but her gaze lingered longer than usual. He could tell she didn’t believe him. But thankfully, she let him go.

He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want anyone looking at him like he was broken.

At lunch, he sat alone. The other kids called him weird, quiet, even spooky. Some threw paper at his back. Others made jokes and laughed when he walked away. He said nothing. He just kept walking.

But Chuka had started observing. He was learning things at school that no one taught in class, how people lie with smiles, how laughter can hide cruelty, how silence can shield pain.

In all the noise of school life, he found a strange focus. Not on textbooks, but on people, on survival. And through it all, he carried a single thought:

“They think I’m quiet because I’m weak. One day… they’ll und

erstand.”