SHE CALLED ME SIS

CHAPTER FIVE — Things the Walls Heard

The thing about feelings you don’t fully understand is that they don’t ask for permission before they grow.

They spread, quietly — like harmattan dust on furniture. One day everything looks fine. The next, you see the layers it’s been hiding.

Since that night — the night she asked “What are we doing?” and I told her we were “trying not to drown” — something changed.

Not loudly.

Not in a way anyone could point at.

But we knew.

The way she lingered near me in the mornings. The way I looked up from my textbook just to see if she was watching. The way we took turns waiting for each other after school, even though our classes didn’t close at the same time.

It was nothing. And everything.

And it was dangerous.

Because the house we lived in was not built for softness.

Especially not this kind.

—

It started with the small touches.

Her hand brushing mine when we passed each other in the room.

A stray braid falling across my shoulder during evening gist. Me tucking it back, pretending not to notice the warmth crawling up my neck.

One night, she leaned her head on my shoulder while we watched a cheap Yoruba film on the small TV. Madam was asleep. The compound was quiet. Her head was light, but her presence was heavy — like all the unspoken things between us sat in that moment, holding their breath.

I didn’t move away.

And she didn’t lift her head.

We stayed like that until the movie ended.

And I knew I was in trouble.

—

The next day at school, I was distracted again.

Miss Omolade asked me to define mitosis during Biology class and I said “emotion.”

The whole class laughed.

I laughed too, but not because it was funny.

Because my mind had replaced science with something scarier.

Feelings.

Lani.

Us.

After school, I waited under the mango tree like usual. Lani came out, eyes low, her bag swinging at her side.

She didn’t smile immediately.

I knew something was wrong.

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “Just tired.”

We walked in silence until we reached the end of the street, then she stopped.

“I heard some girls talking today.”

“About what?”

“Me. And you.”

My stomach dropped.

“What did they say?”

She looked away. “They said we’re too close. That it’s not normal. That you look at me like… like you want something more.”

I felt the heat rush to my ears.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Don’t they?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

Then said the truth.

“I don’t know what this is, Lani. But it’s not something I’ve ever felt before.”

She nodded. Her voice dropped.

“Me too. But I’m scared.”

I wanted to tell her that I was too. But the words got stuck.

So I reached for her hand instead.

And for a second — just a second — she let me hold it.

Then she pulled away, quickly. Glanced around.

“We need to be careful,” she said.

I nodded.

But my chest ached anyway.

Because when something starts to feel like the only real thing in your world, the thought of hiding it feels like a slow kind of dying.

—

That evening, Madam was in a mood.

Chinyere had forgotten to soak the beans. Daddy was late again. And the generator refused to start.

“Lazy girl,” she hissed as she slapped Chinyere’s arm. “Do I have to do everything in this house myself?”

Lani and I kept our heads down, pretending to focus on peeling plantain.

Then Madam said something that made my blood freeze.

“I don’t like the way you two are always whispering and sitting close like twins that shared womb. It’s not good. This is not boarding school. Face front.”

We didn’t say anything.

But later, in our room, Lani sat stiff on her bed.

“She suspects something,” she whispered.

I sat on the floor, legs crossed.

“She always suspects everything.”

“No… this is different. The way she looked at us. Like she’s watching now.”

“She’s always been watching me. You’re just noticing now.”

She looked up. Her eyes were sad.

“I don’t want to lose this.”

I didn’t ask her what “this” meant.

I was too afraid of how I’d answer.

Instead, I crossed the room and sat beside her.

“You’re not going to lose me,” I said.

She smiled weakly.

But something in her had already shifted.

A door closing, slowly.

And I hated it.

—

The following weekend, we were invited to a youth program at church. Daddy had forced us to go, even though we’d both rather wash the compound with toothbrush.

The theme was “Pure Hearts, Pure Lives.”

Pastor Funke stood on the altar, fire in her voice and judgment in her eyes.

“There are some of you here — girls with girls, boys with boys — thinking you are deceiving God. You are not!”

Her voice shook the hall. A few people clapped. I felt my stomach turn.

Lani didn’t move.

She sat beside me, eyes on the floor, fingers clenched around the edge of the plastic seat.

My throat tightened.

The whole room suddenly felt like a prison.

After the service, one of the girls from our area — Blessing — came to us smiling.

“Did you hear that sermon?” she asked.

“Hmm,” I said, noncommittal.

She leaned in. “Some girls need to hear it twice. Especially those doing sister-sister inside room.”

I felt the insult slap me.

But I kept quiet.

Lani said nothing.

She didn’t even flinch.

We walked home in silence.

But something had cracked between us again.

And this time, I wasn’t sure if I could fix it.

—

That night, I lay on my bed, eyes open.

She was lying too. Quiet. Still.

“Lani,” I whispered.

She didn’t answer.

So I whispered again.

“Are you angry?”

She turned to face me.

“No. Just… tired.”

“Tired of what?”

“Of pretending. Of hiding. Of being afraid to just… feel.”

My chest burned.

I sat up.

“I know it’s wrong,” I said. “I know people won’t understand. But when I’m with you, I feel… safe.”

She sat up too.

And the look in her eyes was the same one from that first night — the night she touched my hand after telling me about her mum.

Vulnerable. Bare. Brave.

She reached out and touched my face.

Her fingers were warm.

“I feel safe too,” she said. “But I also feel lost.”

I leaned into her palm. Closed my eyes.

Then opened them again.

And said what had been sitting in my heart for weeks.

“I don’t think this is wrong.”

She blinked.

“Even if the world says it is?”

“I’ve lived my whole life trying to please a world that never saw me. I’m done.”

And that’s when it happened.

She leaned forward.

I did too.

And our lips met.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was slow. Soft. Honest.

And when we pulled apart, we didn’t speak.

We just breathed.

And held each other.

And for once, the silence felt like home.