LONELY NIGHTS

They say night is for rest. For me, night is when the silence gets loud. The ceiling above my bed has a c***k that looks like lightning. It starts from the corner near the window and splits across the middle, stopping just above my pillow. I've counted it forty-seven times tonight. Forty-seven. Same number of days since I last slept through the night without waking up with my heart racing as though I'd been running. The fan turns slowly above me. One. Two. Three. Then— Krrrr... krrrr... Every ten seconds. It's an old fan. Mama bought it four years ago from Alaba. Sometimes I think the thing is tired too. My chest feels heavy. Not the kind of heavy you can put on a table or hand to someone else. This kind sits behind your ribs. It grows roots. It waits until three in the morning and starts asking questions nobody else can hear. 7 Asurah, why are you still pretending you're okay? When was the last time you slept without thinking about money? Who will carry you if you finally fall? I press my palms against my eyes. No sound comes out. That's the rule I made when I was fourteen, when our house became too quiet. Silent tears. Scars nobody sees. During the day, I'm fine. I'm Asurah, the responsible one. Asurah, the quiet one. Asurah, the boy people describe as "mature for his age." I laugh at Tunde's stupid jokes about our Economics teacher. I take notes in class. I help Mama with the dishes. I take out the rubbish. I check the gate twice before going to bed. I am the boy who is okay. But at 3:17 a.m., I'm just Asurah. And Asurah is tired. There's a picture taped to my wall with blue tack that's almost lost its stick. Zara. Not a real photograph. A screenshot from our school WhatsApp group from last year's debate competition. She's laughing in it, head thrown backward, hair everywhere, one hand covering her mouth. Her uniform is slightly too big. There's blue ink on two of her fingers. She laughs like the world has never told her no. 8 Like her biggest problem is NEPA taking light during her favourite television programme. I like her. God, I like her. I've liked her since SS2, when she shared her pen with me during a mock examination and whispered, "You think too much. You'll give yourself wrinkles, Asurah." I've liked her when she wasn't looking. When she argued with the woman selling snacks outside school. When she helped my little sister with Mathematics. When she danced at the school party like nobody was watching. But how do you tell a girl with sunshine in her voice that your nights look like this? How do you say, I think about you, but sometimes I also think about disappearing from everything, without making her afraid? How do you tell her that some mornings the only reason you get out of bed is because Mama needs food and Blessing needs school fees? You don't. So I don't. My phone vibrates beside me. 3:18 a.m. Unknown number. you up? My heart jumps. Then drops. It isn't her. It never is. 9 I type: no Delete. yeah Delete. who is this Delete. I turn the phone face down. Outside, Lagos is quiet in that strange way Lagos is never truly quiet. A dog barks somewhere far away. A car passes. A generator coughs to life in the next compound. I stare at the ceiling. I wonder if Zara is asleep. I wonder if she dreams easily. I wonder if anybody would notice if one day I stopped pretending I was okay. I pull the blanket over my head. It doesn't help. Don't blame me if I cry. I'm not crying. Not yet.