SHE CALLED ME SIS

Lagos, Nigeria The day she came, the compound air was thick with burnt stew and resentment. You could taste the tension in the wind — like Egusi soup left too long in the sun, starting to sour. I was sitting on the corridor floor, back pressed against the warm wall, pretending to read one old novel I’d borrowed from Chiamaka in church. The kind of novel you read not because you care for the story, but because it distracts you from your own. My fingers held the page still, but my eyes weren’t moving. Not really. Then I heard the gate creak open. It was the kind of sound that always made you stop breathing for a moment in our house. You never knew if it meant drama, debt, or disappointment. We had hosted all three before. But this time, it was none of them. It was her. Lani. She stepped out of the keke like she had just returned from war. Her jeans were faded, her slippers were nearly flat, and her Ghana-Must-Go bags looked older than either of us. Yet, somehow, she still walked like the ground owed her soft landings. Her eyes scanned the house like it offended her. Or maybe she was trying not to show fear. Madam Celine — my stepmother — rushed out with the kind of fake joy that could turn your stomach. She was wearing one of her silk wrappers and a matching top that hugged her body too tightly, like even the fabric didn’t want to be there. “My dear! You’re here,” she sang, stretching her arms wide. “Come, come. Look at you. You’ve grown tall o! You’ll soon be dragging clothes with Zara.” She meant it as a joke. But her eyes flicked to me with that same sharpness she always carried — a warning hidden under her smile. I stood up slowly, brushing dust off my skirt. Lani gave her a side-hug. It looked awkward, like two strangers trying to pretend they were close for the camera. I didn’t smile. I just watched. “You remember Zara, abi?” Madam asked. “You girls are sisters now.” “Sisters” felt like a forced badge. Something you’re told to wear whether it fits or not. Lani looked at me, her eyes unreadable. We were the same height, maybe — but she felt taller. Not just physically. Emotionally. Like she’d seen more than I had, even though I was the one who’d stayed behind and carried this family’s nonsense for years. “Hi,” she said simply. “Hey,” I replied, not moving. Madam pointed to the bags. “Zara, help her take them inside.” Just like that. No please. No “Do you mind?” Just orders — the same way she’d been doing since she married my father and made herself queen of this quiet prison. I bent, grabbed the smaller bag, and walked toward the house. I left her to carry the heavier one. I didn’t mean to be wicked. I just wanted her to understand that nobody handed you softness in this house. You had to carve it out yourself. Inside, the sitting room still smelled like half-burnt tomatoes and scolding. A tired fan turned slowly above, doing the bare minimum — just like most of the people in this house. I dropped her bag beside the frayed armchair and looked back. She was there, standing stiff, eyes moving from the dusty curtain to the cracked tiles, as if she was counting the ways she already regretted coming. “You’ll be staying with Zara,” Madam said, voice louder than necessary. “Till further notice.” Till further notice. That was her favorite phrase. She used it like a key to lock away accountability. Then she walked off, muttering about warming food and preparing the guest room for her brother from Ibadan. I led Lani down the narrow corridor to our room — well, mine before today. The walls were pale yellow, but time and poverty had stained them into a tired cream. Two mattresses lay on the floor, side by side. No bedframes. No rug. Just cold floor and shared air. The ceiling fan squeaked when it moved, like it had something to say but was too old to shout. She dropped her second bag and looked around. “Which side is yours?” she asked. I nodded toward the mattress by the window. “That one.” She said nothing, just sat on the other one — the one I’d been avoiding because it was closer to the bathroom and always got heat from the corridor. But I didn’t argue. What was the point? “I’m Lani,” she said. “I know.” “They said we’re sisters.” “Half-sisters,” I replied, trying not to sound defensive. She smiled, faintly. “Half or whole, we’re stuck here.” I didn’t answer. We spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding each other with grace. She unpacked slowly, folding clothes like they were made of glass. I wiped my corner and pretended to be busy. But my eyes kept drifting. She had a scar on her left arm. Long and thin, like a memory someone tried to erase but didn’t quite succeed. She caught me staring and pulled down her sleeve. That night, we ate in silence. Madam made rice, and my father, as usual, came in late, tired from “work” — which could mean anything from office stress to escaping his marriage for a few hours. Nobody explained why Lani was here. Nobody said a word about her mother. I was old enough to guess. Divorce? Death? Family wahala? But silence wrapped around the table like an extra guest. When we went back to the room, I gave her space to bathe first. She came out with her towel tied tightly, her eyes red like someone who had been crying quietly in the bathroom. I didn’t ask. When I came out after my own bath, she had already laid down, facing the wall. I lay beside her. Not close. Not far. Just enough distance for the air between us to feel heavy. I closed my eyes. But I couldn’t sleep. I could feel her — awake. Breathing softly. Hands stiff by her sides. Then she whispered, just barely loud enough to hear. “Do you like it here?” I opened my eyes but didn’t turn. “It’s home.” “Is it?” I shrugged under my wrapper. “It’s what I have.” She sighed. And that’s when I realized — she didn’t come here to start fresh. She came here because she had nowhere else to go. And somehow, that made her more dangerous. People with nothing left? They either break completely… or break others.