Echoes of Who I am

Silence Between Days

The house had grown quieter. Even the walls seemed to know something had changed. Mma no longer woke up early to sweep the compound or hum those half-forgotten Sunday school songs. She moved like someone who had misplaced herself and didn’t know where to start looking.

Her mother noticed but said nothing. Maybe she thought it was just the laziness of growing up, or maybe she was afraid of what silence might reveal. Sometimes she would stand by the doorway, watching Mma sit by the window for hours, her eyes tracing the path of passersby without really seeing them. The only sound that came from her lately was the scrape of her spoon against her plate — slow, mechanical, uninterested.

At school, her laughter was missed before anyone admitted it. Her friends, Chika and Amara, still saved a seat for her under the mango tree during break, but she hardly joined them. When they teased or shared snacks, she just smiled weakly, nodding along as if she were somewhere else entirely.

Once, Chika whispered, “She’s changed. It’s like she’s here but not really here.”

And Amara, plucking at her biscuit, muttered, “Maybe she’s just tired.”

But both of them knew it wasn’t tiredness. It was something heavier — something they couldn’t name.

Rumors began to stir. In small towns, silence is an invitation. Someone said Mma had fallen sick. Someone else said she’d been seen crying near the river. Others just shrugged and said, “Girls her age go through things.” Nobody really asked her what those “things” were.

One afternoon, after classes, Mrs. Okafor called her aside. The woman’s voice was soft, but her eyes were sharp, knowing.

“Mma, is everything alright?”

Mma nodded, her lips barely parting. “Yes, ma.”

Mrs. Okafor tilted her head. “You’ve been quiet lately. Your notes are incomplete, and I hardly see you talk to anyone. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Yes, ma,” Mma repeated, this time even quieter.

There was a pause — long and uncomfortable. Then Mrs. Okafor sighed.

“Alright,” she said gently. “But my door is always open, you hear?”

Mma nodded again and hurried out, her chest tight. She hated pity. She hated how people looked at her as if she might break if they spoke too loudly.

At home that evening, her little brother ran around her, giggling and tugging at her wrapper.

“Mma, play with me!” he squealed, holding out a stick he’d turned into a pretend sword.

She forced a smile and took it, waving it once before handing it back. “Go and play with Mama,” she said softly.

He frowned. “You don’t play anymore.”

She looked away. “I’m tired.”

When night came, she lay awake again, the ceiling fan humming its endless song. Her thoughts spun faster than the blades — flashes of memory she didn’t want, whispers she couldn’t silence. The sound of laughter outside drifted through the window, mixing with the chirping of crickets. Somewhere far away, a baby cried.

She pressed her face into the pillow and wished for morning — not because she wanted a new day, but because darkness made remembering too easy.

By the fourth day, she stopped sitting by the window. Instead, she began sweeping again, washing plates, helping in the kitchen. Her mother smiled, thinking maybe things were returning to normal. But Mma wasn’t getting better — she was learning how to disappear quietly in plain sight.

Still, something was changing — a faint restlessness in her chest, a need she didn’t yet understand. The silence that had protected her was beginning to feel like a cage.