SHE CALLED ME SIS

CHAPTER FOUR — The Question That Wouldn’t Leave Me

“If I could leave, would you come with me?”

That was what she asked me.

In the dark. In the silence. After Madam slapped her just for standing up for me.

I didn’t answer that night. Not with words.

But I didn’t sleep either.

I lay on my side, facing her in the darkness, hearing her breathing, steady and soft. And in my chest, something heavy was shifting — like a locked door slowly creaking open.

Her question haunted me.

If I could leave, would you come with me?

It sounded simple. But it wasn’t. Not in this house. Not in this country. Not in this life where being a girl meant stitching your own strength from scraps and silence.

I thought about it all through the night. And by morning, it was still sitting with me, like a stone I couldn’t swallow.

—

That morning was strangely quiet.

Daddy had already left for work. Madam was in the kitchen with Chinyere, arguing about salt. There was no shouting — just the usual tension that sat like dust on everything.

Lani was sitting at the foot of her mattress, plaiting her hair in front of the small mirror we shared.

I watched her from my bed, my wrapper still wrapped around my chest, sweat clinging to my neck from the heat.

“About what you asked,” I said.

She paused.

Then turned slightly, her hand still halfway through her hair. “You remember?”

I sat up. “I didn’t sleep.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Me neither.”

The air in the room was still. Like the house itself was holding its breath.

“I would,” I said finally. “If you were serious… I would leave with you.”

She blinked, and I saw the surprise flicker in her eyes — quickly, like candlelight.

“You’re serious?”

I nodded. “Anywhere would be better than here.”

That was the first time I admitted it out loud — that I wanted to escape.

Not just from the house, or from Madam’s sharp tongue, or Daddy’s absence. But from the weight of never feeling like I belonged in my own life.

And maybe that’s why her question shook me so much.

Because for the first time in years… someone had offered me a way out.

Even if it was just a whisper in the dark.

—

Later that afternoon, Madam called us into the parlour.

She had that look on her face — the one she wore when she was about to pretend she cared.

“I want both of you to go and greet my sister,” she said, powdering her face in front of the cracked mirror. “She just had surgery and she’s back in her husband’s house in Surulere.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Just the two of us?”

“Yes. You’re not small girls.”

No transport fare. No snack money. Just a name, a bus stop, and one vague instruction.

We left the house at 1:30 p.m., walking under the Lagos sun with sweat already sliding down our backs before we even reached the gate.

The road to Surulere was long, but Lani and I made it bearable. We joked about danfo conductors. We argued about the right way to eat puff puff. We sang old Naija songs in low voices while squeezed between sweaty passengers.

For a moment, it felt like freedom.

Not full freedom.

Just a taste.

—

Madam’s sister lived in a flat at the back of a compound filled with gossiping neighbors and the smell of fried pepper. Her face was swollen from the surgery, but her mouth still worked.

“Come inside jare,” she said, dragging us into her parlour. “Zara, you’re bigger now o! And this one must be Lani. You look like your mama.”

Lani just smiled politely. I could tell she didn’t like the comparison. It happened a lot now — people always comparing her to the dead, like she wasn’t her own person.

We stayed for a while. Helped her adjust her pillows. Helped her sweep. She told us long stories about her secondary school days and her husband who “used to be romantic before pot belly entered the chat.”

When we finally left around 5 p.m., the sky was already grey with approaching rain.

We stood at the bus stop, waiting.

Lani turned to me.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” I said.

“Before I came… did you want me here?”

I looked at her for a long time. She didn’t look angry. Just… honest.

“No,” I said. “Not at first.”

She nodded slowly.

“I thought so.”

“But now,” I added, “I think maybe I needed you more than I knew.”

Her mouth parted slightly. Her eyes didn’t leave mine.

“Me too,” she whispered.

The bus came. We climbed in. But the conversation didn’t end.

It lived in the silence between our thighs, pressed together on the cracked leather seat.

It breathed in the way our arms brushed.

It lingered in the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t watching.

—

Back at home, Madam didn’t ask how the visit went. She only asked why we didn’t bring anything back.

“Lazy girls,” she muttered, walking off.

Lani went to the bathroom to shower. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

My chest was loud again.

Not because of fear.

But because I knew something had changed.

And when she came back into the room, wrapped in her towel, water still dripping from her braids — I knew I couldn’t pretend anymore.

She sat on her mattress, facing me.

And for the first time, neither of us looked away.

Her eyes moved to my lips, then back to my eyes.

I swallowed.

Then she said it.

Soft. Careful. Like she was afraid the words would c***k.

“Zara… what are we doing?”

I opened my mouth to speak.

But I didn’t have the answer.

Because it wasn’t just friendship.

And it wasn’t quite love.

But it was something alive. Something real. Something neither of us could name — but both of us felt.

“We’re trying not to drown,” I said.

She nodded.

Then came closer.

She sat beside me on the bed.

Our thighs touched.

She reached for my hand.

And I let her.

There was no kiss.

Not yet.

Just breathing.

Just closeness.

Just the slow, terrifying beauty of knowing you’ve been seen — and not looked away from.

For once, I didn’t feel ashamed.

I didn’t feel strange.

I just felt… chosen.

And for a girl like me, that was everything.