Why¿

Chapter One The rain had stopped just before the burial. The ground was damp, breathing out the heavy scent of hibiscus and soil. Palm fronds lay broken across the narrow paths, pressed into the mud by the shoes of mourners who had walked the long road from the village square. Clouds, swollen and gray, hovered low enough to touch the tops of the mango trees. It was as though even the sky refused to brighten, conspiring with the earth to keep the day in mourning. Amara stood at the edge of the gathering, her black dress clinging to her skin, her shawl damp where it had soaked the drizzle earlier. She folded her arms tightly, her fingers digging into the crook of her elbows, as if anchoring herself against a tide of emotions. Her eyes were locked on the coffin that hung suspended above the grave, ropes biting into its polished sides, the gold handles catching what little light the clouds allowed. Whispers swirled around her, weaving through the crowd like smoke. “They said he lived too fast.” “Ah, city life swallowed him.” “May God forgive.” They were not prayers. They were gossip dressed in mourning clothes, and the words lodged themselves into Amara’s ears with a sting sharper than the harmattan wind. She pressed her lips together. At the edge of the grave, her father knelt, his agbada heavy with dust at the hems, his shoulders shaking violently as though grief had gutted him. His sobs rose in harsh bursts, echoing above the crowd. Mourners drew closer, nodding in sympathy. To them, it was the picture of a father undone, a man shattered by the loss of his only son. But Amara saw it. When his hand came up to wipe his face, his fingers pressing against his cheeks, his lips betrayed him. For the briefest flicker—so quick she almost doubted herself—his mouth curved. A smirk. Small, sharp, there and gone again like a shadow passing over water. Her stomach tightened. Her nails bit into her skin through the fabric of her dress. A father’s grief should not look like that. She tore her gaze from him and searched for her mother, desperate for grounding. Ngozi stood slightly behind, her wrapper neat, her head tie pristine despite the damp air. Her back was ramrod straight, her face an unreadable mask. She had not shed a tear. Her hands clutched one another, fingers knotted so tightly her knuckles shone white. To the mourners, it might have looked like resilience, the quiet strength of a grieving wife. To Amara, it looked like something else entirely. Restraint. A holding back, as if her mother was fighting to keep something buried deeper than the coffin at her feet. The coffin was lowered. The ropes groaned, stretched, then slackened. Wails erupted—some deep and guttural, others piercing like a cutlass drawn across iron. A woman threw herself forward, collapsing in the dirt, clawing at the soil as she screamed Kelechi’s name as though sheer desperation could pull him back from beneath the earth. The first shovel of sand struck wood with a dull, cruel thud. Amara flinched. Each subsequent one sounded like a nail being hammered into her chest. Why? The question rang in her mind with every scoop, every fall of earth. Then a different sound pierced through the chaos. A high, trembling cry. Amara turned sharply. Chioma. The actress stood trembling, her scarf askew, tears streaking the powder from her face. She pressed both hands against her chest as though trying to stop her heart from bursting. Her voice cracked, calling Kelechi’s name with a pain that sounded too intimate, too raw. Whispers surged like a tide. “Is that not Chioma, the actress?” “She was always visiting…” “Ah, he had secrets, that boy.” Amara’s jaw clenched. She remembered those visits—Chioma arriving with perfume strong enough to linger long after she left, her laughter too loud for the quiet sitting room, her smiles that stretched too long, too knowingly. And she remembered the way Kelechi’s eyes followed her, filled with something Amara had never seen when he looked at anyone else. The final prayer ended, the grave sealed with a mound of raw earth. The mourners began to disperse, their duty fulfilled, their wails folded away as quickly as umbrellas after rain. Children ran ahead toward the house where food and drinks waited, their laughter cutting through the heavy air. Amara remained, rooted. Her father rose, his agbada dust-streaked, his face still damp with tears. He placed a hand on her shoulder, heavy, deliberate. “Come,” he said softly, voice trembling in just the right way. She nodded. But as he turned, she caught it again. That flicker at the corner of his lips. That smirk, small and fleeting. Her pulse quickened. Inside the house, the noise swelled. Plastic chairs scraped against cement. Spoons clinked against enamel plates. Babies cried, voices rose in chatter. The mourners shed their grief like a borrowed garment, replacing it with gossip and the comfort of food. Ngozi sat at the center, her back perfectly straight, her head tilted slightly down. Relatives leaned close to console her, but she neither wept nor spoke. Her silence was heavier than wailing could ever be, pressing into the room like unseen weight. Amara hovered in the doorway, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug crescents into her palms. Every nerve in her body screamed to demand answers, to pierce through the mask of silence, but her lips stayed sealed. Her body trembled, but she swallowed the words, choking them down like stones. The door burst open. Uncle Ikenna charged in, his wrapper tied loosely, his sandals slapping against the floor. His belly pushed ahead of him like a herald, his eyes alight with mischief despite the occasion. “Ehn-ehn!” he bellowed, clapping his hands. “See the way una dey cry here! If Kelechi wake up now, the first thing he go ask be, ‘Why una dey disturb my sleep like this?’” A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, hesitant at first, then freer. Some hissed, shaking their heads, but others chuckled despite themselves. Ikenna barreled forward, squeezing shoulders, slapping backs. His energy filled the room, breaking the rigid tension like a c***k in a clay pot. He spotted Amara in the corner and leaned close, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “That actress,” he whispered, his breath warm with the smell of palm wine. “She dey cry pass wife wey lose husband. You no dey see am? Hmmm. My girl, this family—full of secrets. Full.” Amara’s chest tightened. Before she could respond, he winked, straightened, and raised his voice again for all to hear. “Abeg, where the pepper soup dey? This na burial, not hunger strike!” Laughter burst louder this time, genuine and unrestrained. Even some of the mourners who had wept hardest wiped their faces, smiling. But Amara did not laugh. Her gaze drifted back to her father, who stood across the room, his face hidden for a moment behind the shoulder of a relative. When he turned, his eyes caught hers. And then—there it was again. That curve of his lips. A smirk, small and fleeting, as though some hidden satisfaction rippled beneath the surface of his grief. Her breath caught. The room spun with voices, with the clatter of plates, with the heady aroma of goat meat pepper soup. But all of it faded as she whispered the only word that filled her: “Why?” No one heard her. And no one answered.