BEFORE THE SKY BREAKS

Before the sky breaks(chapter1cont'd)

We’re not broken, just… untranslated. Two versions of a book written in different dialects. I flip through his pages, searching for something I recognise. A sentence. A word. A feeling. And some days, I think I catch it—in the way he hums when he’s focused, or how he always keeps the generator running till I fall asleep. Not love in its loud, dramatic form. But love, still. Folded small, careful as a note slipped between chapters.

on one occasion, The power went out, as it often did just after dinner. Mummy lit a candle in the sitting room and went back to shelling groundnuts. I was padded into my room, the floor warm beneath her bare feet. On her small wooden table, something unfamiliar sat beside her books.

A cassette tape. No label. Just a faint smudge of ink, like it had once been written on and wiped away.

I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. There was no note. No explanation. Across the corridor, I heard the creak of my father’s chair in the parlour. The same chair he always sat in when NEPA took light. Humming low, barely audible over the static of the battery-powered radio. I knew that hum. Not the tune itself, but the shape of it—the way it climbed and dropped, like it had somewhere to go but was too tired to get there.

I stared at the tape.

In the drawer of the kitchen cabinet, there was an old Walkman I had rescued from a pile of things Papa once said he’d throw away but never did. I tiptoed out, retrieved it, and returned to her room. The player whirred to life with a soft click as the tape began.

Music.

His voice. Papa’s voice—clearer, younger, more vibrant than I had ever heard it.

A slow ballad, sung in Hausa, smooth and aching like it was made for the night.

I paused the tape.

And for the first time, I wondered what dreams myfather had let go of… and what it meant that he’d left this for me to find.

I didn’t go to him.

Not yet.

But I turned the volume up just a little—and let the song play to the end.

I couldn’t quite tell why we were the way we were but we never quite understood each other at least that was what I thought, He provided, I obeyed but neither of us truly saw the other. He had a more close relationship with yusuf, maybe because he was the only boy, they both had a strong bond Yusuf saw Baba as his hero, My father wasn’t rich with material things but he did his best, the knowledge he had impacted in us was priceless that fact I couldn’t deny but I had hoped he saw me too but he wasn’t entirely to be blamed a part of me liked it that way, little words and sometimes the silence, Silence was the heavy curtain that fell between us, hiding all the words we couldn’t say.

Time flew by quickly, my anxiety grew, other teens would be pretty excited to go away and it wasn’t like I was sad to leave home, I wasn’t, to be honest I didn’t like being home, most times it was overwhelming, the constant expectation they wanted, the endless meaningless questions just made it even worse, I couldn’t just enjoy the silence, I love the silence, it was more than peaceful, it was heavenly but they didn’t understand this but still in all of this I still was anxious about school, I wasn’t the type to be anxious about anything at all my mother would always say “Kai, Asabe… you move like harmattan wind — soft to some, fierce to others, but always certain”. But still sometimes I find myself questioning those praises, was I really brave? or Maybe I’m not brave — maybe I’ve just learned how to fold my fear into silence and wear it like skin, hoping no one notices the shaking underneath…..and this time I just didn’t know if I could hide it so well but I did…….in the end I always do.

“Hurry up, you don’t want to miss the bus” Umar said in a stern tone, he stood by the door, from look the wore on his face you could tell he wasn’t in a gaming mood, he just wanted to make sure that they made it in time for the bus,

The compound felt different that morning — like the walls themselves knew something was changing.

Asabe was halfway through dragging her box to the front of the house when she noticed Yusuf, standing by the gate with his arms folded across his chest, watching her. Not saying a word. That was his way.

He hadn’t helped her pack — not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t stand the sight of her going. And now, as the moment grew nearer, he looked almost… lost, like he was still trying to figure out where to place all the things he felt. Yusuf was never the loud type, He didn’t speak much, not because he had nothing to say, but because words didn’t come easily when feelings ran too deep. There was a stillness to him — the kind that wasn’t empty, but full. Full of unspoken thoughts. Full of unasked questions. Full of love he didn’t always know how to place.

He and Asabe had always been close — not in the way that demanded selfies or long talks past midnight, but in the way that two people grow side by side without needing to explain why they belong. She was the noise to his quiet, the boldness to his calm. And somehow, in his quiet, Yusuf built a world where Asabe was his favorite person. His safest place. His best friend.

Not that he ever said it. The man in him — or maybe the boy still figuring out what manhood meant — kept those words sealed tight behind his teeth. That’s what the men in their family did: they watched, they worried, they loved — but always in silence. So, when Asabe started packing for university, he didn’t tell her how his chest ached at the thought of the empty hallway, the missing laugh, the seat that would stay cold at dinner. He didn’t say, “I’ll miss you,” or “Don’t go,” or even “Write me when you get there.” He just stood by the door with his arms folded — like he always did.

But it killed him a little.

Because she didn’t know.

She didn’t know how deeply she mattered to him.

How much he needed her, in the quiet ways he didn’t have words for.

My family wasn’t the hugging kind. They said “well done” instead of “I’m proud of you,” and “eat something” instead of “I care.” They were good at loving — just not so good at saying it to the people who needed to hear it most. shocking right? my mother and father both expressive with the art that they love but yet still distant and cold with their words but perhaps those things had taken up too much space in their heart, making it difficult to voice how they felt.

So maybe that’s why Yusuf stayed in the shadows of the story for a while — not forgotten, just unread. But if you looked closely, if you really looked at him — you’d see a brother carrying the kind of love that doesn’t shout but never falters. The kind that hurts deeply when it goes unseen.

My box was zipped, my backpack slung over my shoulder. The driver honked from outside.

I gave Yusuf a quick side hug — he didn’t hug back. Just patted my shoulder stiffly and nodded.

“You go dey alright,” he said, voice low.

But when she walked out the gate, she didn’t look back.

And Yusuf? He stayed there long after the car disappeared, still holding the goodbye he never got to say.