Why¿

Echoes of the secrets

Chapter Three – Echoes of Secrets

The morning after the burial arrived too bright for Amara’s mood. Sunlight spilled across the yard, chasing away shadows, but inside her chest, heaviness lingered. Her father moved through the house with practiced calm, as if grief could be scheduled and tidied away. Her mother sat quietly at the table, her untouched tea growing cold.

Only Uncle Ikenna seemed alive. He tore into his bread with exaggerated delight, humming between sips of tea.

“Why is everyone chewing bread like mourners?” he quipped, before slapping his forehead in mock realization. “Ah, yes—because we are mourners!”

A few chuckled despite themselves. Amara managed only a tight smile, her mind replaying yesterday’s scene: her father at the grave, the strange smirk, the object he’d buried.

She slipped out after breakfast. The compound was quieter now; relatives had begun their journeys home. Near the mango tree, something caught her eye—a handkerchief, partly hidden in the grass. She bent, heart quickening when she recognized the initials stitched neatly on the corner: C.A.

Chioma Adebayo.

Why would the famous actress’s handkerchief lie so close to Kelechi’s grave? Amara tucked it into her wrapper quickly, glancing around before hurrying back inside.

⸻

By noon, Chioma herself returned. Unlike before, she arrived without fanfare—no designer sunglasses, no camera-ready smile. Just a plain dress, swollen eyes, and a brittle voice asking to see Amara’s mother.

From her room upstairs, Amara caught pieces of their conversation.

“…you promised me,” Chioma’s voice cracked.

“Keep your voice down,” her mother snapped.

“I have lost more than you think. Don’t pretend you don’t understand.”

A silence followed. Then her mother again, sharp but trembling: “If you keep coming here, people will talk. Do you want to ruin what’s left?”

Amara’s chest tightened. What promise? What had Chioma lost?

When Chioma stepped out, their eyes met briefly. For a heartbeat, Amara thought the actress might speak. But Chioma turned away, disappearing into the afternoon light.

⸻

Later, Amara cornered Uncle Ikenna as he chased chickens across the backyard, a stick in hand.

“Uncle,” she whispered, “what do you know about Chioma and Kelechi?”

Ikenna froze dramatically, then grinned. “Your brother and that woman? Their story… hmm, it’s sweeter than palm wine, hotter than pepper soup.”

“What story?” she pressed.

He leaned close, lowering his voice. For a moment, the mischief left his face. “There are secrets in this family, Amara. But truth is like yam—you don’t swallow it whole, unless you want to choke.”

Before she could push further, he straightened, laughing loudly. “Ah! But if you buy me palm wine, maybe I’ll gossip better!” He darted after the chickens again, leaving her fuming.

⸻

That night, sleepless, Amara drifted into the corridor. From the sitting room, her parents’ hushed voices carried.

“…you think she suspects?” her father asked.

“She is not a fool,” her mother replied. “But she is still a child.”

“Not this one,” her father said grimly. “Amara is different.”

Amara’s breath caught. She edged back, but collided with someone in the shadows.

“Chineke!” Uncle Ikenna hissed, clutching his wrapper. “Small witch! Why you dey waka like cat?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

He studied her face, his grin fading. “So… you don hear something wey your ears no suppose hear, abi?”

She swallowed hard. “Uncle… was Kelechi killed?”

For once, Ikenna’s eyes lost all mischief. He started to answer—but footsteps echoed, and just like that, he plastered on his clownish smile. “Ah! My niece, go sleep before mosquito use your leg do dinner!”

He whistled away, leaving her trembling in the dark.

⸻

The next day, news spread like wildfire—Chioma had collapsed at her hotel. Some whispered exhaustion, others poison. Amara’s parents received it with stiff silence. Her mother prayed under her breath. Her father gave no reaction at all.

Amara fingered the handkerchief hidden in her wrapper. Between Chioma’s grief, her parents’ whispers, and Ikenna’s cryptic warnings, the truth seemed to circle her like smoke—thick, suffocating, impossible to hold.

She looked toward the mango tree, where the fresh earth still marked her brother’s grave.

For the first time, she whispered the question that refused to let her sleep.

“Why?”

The wind carried her voice into the night, leaving her with nothing but silence—and the sense that her story, and Kelechi’s, was only beginning.