Episode 4: The missing birthday
965 Words
The room fell silent.
Not the ordinary kind of silence.
The kind that pressed against your chest until breathing became difficult.
Chuka stared at the old man.
His parents stared at the old man.
Even the grandfather clock in the corner suddenly sounded louder.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Finally...
Chuka laughed.
A dry, amused laugh.
"That's a good one."
Nobody joined him.
He slipped both hands into his pockets and slowly walked toward the old man.
Stopping just inches away.
"You were there the day I met Amara?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
A smile tugged at the corner of Chuka's lips.
"Because I've never met her."
The old man looked into his eyes.
Not with fear.
Not with confidence.
With pity.
And somehow...
That irritated Chuka more than anything else.
"You don't believe me?" Chuka asked.
"I believe..."
The old man spoke carefully.
"...that you believe what you're saying."
The smile disappeared from Chuka's face.
"What does that mean?"
The old man ignored the question.
Instead, he asked one of his own.
"Master Chuka..."
"Don't call me that."
A tiny smile crossed the old man's face.
"You hated that name even as a boy."
Chuka frowned.
His parents exchanged a quick glance.
A glance so brief...
Most people would have missed it.
Chuka didn't.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The old man continued.
"Do you remember your tenth birthday?"
The question caught Chuka completely off guard.
"My... what?"
"Your tenth birthday."
Chuka frowned.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Answer me."
He scoffed.
"I don't see why—"
"Answer him."
This time...
It was his father.
His voice carried the same quiet authority that had intimidated board members, politicians, and billionaires alike.
For the first time since the conversation began...
Chuka hesitated.
His tenth birthday.
He tried to picture it.
A cake.
Friends.
Presents.
His mother.
His father.
Anything.
Nothing came.
His forehead creased.
Strange.
He remembered his first day at university.
His graduation.
The first million naira he ever made.
Even the suit he wore to his first business award.
But his tenth birthday...
There was only darkness.
He blinked.
Tried again.
Nothing.
The smile faded from his face.
"I..."
The word refused to come out.
His mother quietly gripped the arm of her chair.
His father looked toward the window.
Neither of them said a word.
The old man watched Chuka with sad eyes.
"You can't remember."
It wasn't a question.
It was a fact.
Chuka suddenly felt irritated.
"No one remembers every birthday."
"True."
The old man nodded.
"But most people remember one that changed their lives."
Those words settled heavily inside the room.
Chuka swallowed.
Something about this conversation felt wrong.
Like walking through a house that looked familiar...
But wasn't his.
He took a step back.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Samuel."
"That's not what I asked."
The old man smiled faintly.
"I know."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Samuel reached into the pocket of his old coat.
Chuka's muscles tensed.
Instead of a weapon...
The old man brought out a faded leather wallet.
He opened it.
Removed a tiny photograph.
And held it out.
"I've carried this for seventeen years."
Chuka reached for it.
Just before his fingers touched the photograph...
Samuel pulled it back.
"Not yet."
"What game are you playing?"
"No game."
Samuel carefully returned the photograph to his wallet.
"When the time is right..."
"You'll understand."
Chuka laughed bitterly.
"No.
"I'm tired of everyone talking in riddles."
He looked at his parents.
"You."
Then at Samuel.
"And you."
"If you know something about me..."
His voice dropped.
"...say it."
Nobody did.
Nobody moved.
Finally...
Samuel adjusted his coat.
Walked toward the door.
Before leaving...
He stopped without looking back.
"Some truths don't destroy lives, Master Chuka."
He paused.
"They reveal the life that was stolen."
The door clicked shut.
No one spoke.
For almost a full minute.
Then Chuka turned to his parents.
His eyes were no longer amused.
No longer sarcastic.
For the first time in years...
There was something dangerously unfamiliar in them.
Determination.
"I'm going to find out what happened."
His father closed his eyes.
Almost as if he had expected those exact words.
Across town...
Amara unlocked the door to her apartment with a tired sigh.
The hallway smelled of fresh rain and fried plantain from the neighbor's kitchen.
Home.
At last.
She had barely dropped her handbag onto the sofa when someone knocked.
Three soft knocks.
She frowned.
Nobody ever visited this late.
She opened the door.
Little Ada stood there, smiling shyly.
"Good evening, Miss Amara."
"Good evening, Ada."
The little girl stretched out a cream-colored envelope.
"A man asked me to give you this."
Amara's smile faded.
"What man?"
"He said I should only give it to you."
"Where is he now?"
Ada pointed toward the street.
"He left."
Amara hurried outside.
The evening breeze lifted strands of her hair.
The narrow street was almost empty.
A motorcycle disappeared around the corner.
An elderly woman watered flowers.
Two boys argued over a football.
Whoever had delivered the envelope...
Was gone.
Slowly...
She looked down.
Across the front, written in elegant blue ink, were four words.
Some memories should sleep.
A strange chill ran down her spine.
She stared at the handwriting.
It felt...
Familiar.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Its edges were worn with age.
The moment she saw it...
The world around her seemed to disappear.
Her breathing caught.
"No..."
she whispered.
The photograph showed a hospital corridor.
Doctors.
Nurses.
People rushing past.
But that wasn't what terrified her.
Standing in the background...
Holding the hand of a little boy...
Was a woman.
A woman Amara hadn't seen in seventeen years.
A woman who was supposed to be dead.
- Writer
