Why¿

Threads of Doubt

Chapter Four – Threads of Doubt

The news of Chioma’s collapse reached the house like a spark in dry harmattan. Relatives whispered it with lowered voices, some crossing themselves, others shrugging as though the misfortune of an actress had little to do with them. But in Amara’s chest, the words burned.

Collapsed. Hotel. Critical condition.

At dinner, her father mentioned it with unnerving calm. “They say she is at St. Mary’s Hospital. Some claim exhaustion.” He broke a piece of yam as if the topic carried no weight.

Her mother’s reaction was the opposite. The spoon clattered from her hand, rattling against the enamel plate. “St. Mary’s?” she asked, voice thin.

“Yes,” her father replied, glancing at her with faint curiosity. “Why?”

But her mother shook her head quickly, her eyes fixed on the stew, lips pressed tight.

Amara watched them, her mind unraveling. Why did her mother seem so shaken? Why did her father seem to watch her so closely, as though weighing something invisible?

Later that night, when the house had quieted, Amara approached her father. “Papa,” she began softly, “can you take me to the hospital tomorrow? I… I want to see Chioma. Just to know she’s alive.”

He studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a short nod, he agreed. “We’ll go early. But don’t tell your mother yet. She may not understand.”

The words tightened her stomach. Why wouldn’t Mama understand?

⸻

St. Mary’s was crowded with curious visitors the next morning. Nurses bustled through the corridors, whispering in low tones. Amara stayed close to her father, her eyes darting from face to face. Some people wore pity; others curiosity; a few looked almost fearful.

A police officer stood near the ward entrance, speaking quietly to a doctor. Her father seemed to notice but said nothing, merely resting a firm hand on her shoulder as though guiding her past the distraction.

Inside the private ward, Chioma lay pale against white sheets. The actress who once dazzled billboards and magazine covers looked fragile, her beauty dimmed by illness. An oxygen tube rested beneath her nose, and her lips moved faintly as though chasing words in a dream.

Amara leaned closer, her heart thudding. “Chioma?” she whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered. For a moment, she seemed aware. Her hand shifted weakly, fingers brushing against Amara’s wrist. Her lips parted.

“…the promise… he knew… he knew…” The words rasped out before fading into shallow breaths.

Amara froze, the fragments searing themselves into her mind. The promise. He knew. Who? What promise?

Her father adjusted the blanket around Chioma, his face calm, unreadable. Then he touched Amara’s arm. “We should leave. She needs rest.”

Outside the ward, her father paused to speak briefly with the doctor. Amara caught only a fragment—“stable but delicate… further observation”—before he ushered her back into the sunlight.

⸻

By evening, they were home again. Her mother stood at the doorway, waiting, her eyes sharp as a blade. “Where did you go?” she demanded, her gaze fixed on Amara.

“To the market,” her father replied smoothly, handing her a small bag of vegetables. “The girl came with me.”

Her mother’s shoulders relaxed, but her eyes lingered on Amara, heavy with suspicion.

That night, restless, Amara wandered toward the sitting room. The lamp burned low. There, in the center of the room, sat her mother. She was alone, hunched forward, her hands cupping something that glinted softly in the dim light.

Amara’s breath caught. It was a necklace—a delicate gold chain with a pendant shaped like a star. She had seen it before. Around Chioma’s neck.

“Mama?” Amara’s voice was barely a whisper.

Her mother jolted, clutching the necklace tightly. Then she turned, her face half-shadowed, her eyes strangely bright. “I was… praying,” she said, her tone quick, defensive. “Go back to bed, Amara.”

But Amara couldn’t move. She could only stare at the chain glimmering in her mother’s hand, the same chain that hours ago had rested on the chest of a dying actress.

Her mother repeated, softer but no less sharp: “Go. To. Bed.”

Amara obeyed, her legs trembling as she climbed the stairs. Behind her, the silence of the house seemed heavier than ever, as though every wall was listening, holding secrets it would never tell.

And in her mind, the words kept echoing:

The promise. He knew.