Chapter Two - When Silence Screams
1722 Words
Jessica didn't sleep that night. Not even for a moment.
The brown envelope sat untouched on the small plastic table beside her mattress, its single message replaying in her mind over and over:
"You buried her. Now bury the truth too."
The windows rattled slightly in the night breeze, but nothing cooled the heat inside her chest. Her hands ached from how long she'd kept them clenched. Every small sound outside became a question, every footstep a threat.
She rose before dawn. The sky was still dark when she tied her scarf and stepped into the morning, walking fast, heart steady but wary.
She didn't know where she was going, only that she needed to move.
At the end of her street, she turned toward the market road and kept walking, past the junction where Adaeze's blood had first stained her wrappers. Past the borehole where Mama Chika sold sachet water and gossip. Past the wall where someone had scrawled in charcoal: "Witch nurse."
At the corner, a rusted megaphone screeched to life — the town crier's voice cutting through the quiet like a razor. "Attention, attention o! There will be a candlelight procession tonight at Umuako central square in memory of our sister Adaeze Okonkwo. All are expected to attend. Dress code: white."
White. The same color she had worn that night.
She turned into a side street, away from the noise. Her feet led her to the one person who might give her information without asking for anything in return.
Ngozi Umeh.
Ngozi had been her assistant — an auxiliary nurse with sharp eyes, a sharp tongue, and a surprisingly soft heart. The girl had gone home the night Adaeze died, claiming fever. Jessica hadn't seen her since.
When she knocked on Ngozi's door, a toddler peered out. A moment later, Ngozi appeared, hair wrapped in an old scarf, her expression tight.
"Good morning," Jessica said.
Ngozi hesitated. Then stepped outside, closing the door gently behind her.
"I didn't come to accuse," Jessica said. "I came to ask what you've heard."
Ngozi rubbed her arms. "A lot. Too much. People say you left her to die. Others say you used her."
Jessica's jaw clenched. "And you?"
"I say... I wasn't there. I won't talk what I didn't see."
Jessica nodded slowly. "Someone left a message. Threatening me. Typed. No name."
Ngozi's eyes widened. "You should report it."
"To who? The same people who suspended me?"
Ngozi was quiet. Then said, "Be careful, Aunty Jess. There's talk that some people want to burn the clinic during the vigil."
Jessica blinked. "The clinic?"
"They say it's cursed now."
Jessica stepped back, suddenly cold despite the heat. "Thank you."
She turned and walked away, mind spinning.
Later that day, she found herself sitting in front of the only person who had not treated her like a ghost since the incident — Reverend Sister Benita.
The nun had been in Umuako for over thirty years, running a small community health project and a children's shelter. Her compound was shaded with trees, and the air smelled of cassava and clean water.
Jessica sat in the wooden chair, explaining everything.
When she finished, Sister Benita looked at her for a long moment. "Truth has a voice, my dear. But sometimes it needs help to be heard."
Jessica didn't speak.
The nun leaned forward. "A lawyer came to the mission two days ago. Said he was reviewing rural health cases. I think he wanted to ask about you, but he was careful with his words. Barrister Emeka Nwachukwu. Young. Tall. Watches more than he talks."
Jessica felt something shift. "Why would he come to you?"
"He said the government assigned him. But I think he's digging for something. Maybe a cover-up. Maybe a c***k in the chief's story."
Jessica stood. "Do you have his number?"
Sister Benita nodded, handed her a folded slip.
That evening, Jessica stood at the edge of the vigil crowd.
Hundreds had gathered. The square flickered with candlelight, faces raised in sorrow and suspicion. People wept. The chief spoke. Obinna, Adaeze's husband, stood by silently.
When her name was mentioned — not honorably — a few heads turned. One woman hissed. Another muttered something Jessica couldn't hear.
And then, over the speaker, came something new.
A man's voice, calm and clear: "In times of loss, we often look for someone to blame. But the truth is not always who we think it is."
Jessica turned sharply. The speaker stepped into view.
Barrister Emeka Nwachukwu.
He wasn't in white like the rest. He wore dark brown and didn't hold a candle. But his eyes found hers, steady. And in that glance, Jessica saw something she hadn't felt in days:
A reason to keep standing.
Later that night, her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then picked up.
"Jessica Eke?"
"Yes."
"This is Barrister Emeka. I want to hear your side. Privately."
She was quiet. Then said, "Where?"
"My office. Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Come alone."
The line went dead.
Jessica dropped the phone. She looked around her small flat. The curtains moved slightly. The envelope still sat on the table. But now there was something new beneath it — a copy of her shift log from the night of Adaeze's death.
But it wasn't her handwriting.
She picked it up.
The signature wasn't hers. The time entries were different. Someone had changed the official hospital record.
She sat down slowly, blood draining from her face.
They weren't just threatening her.
They were building a lie.
She stayed up again that night, scribbling notes, tracing timelines, comparing memories to what the forged logbook showed. It felt like fighting shadows with a candle stub.
The next morning, she stood before a modest office painted green with white trimming. "Nwachukwu & Co. Legal Practitioners" was stenciled neatly on the glass.
Inside, the receptionist glanced up. "He's expecting you."
Emeka's office smelled of paper and pine. Books lined the walls — thick, law-bound volumes alongside dusty community health reports.
He rose when she entered. "Nurse Jessica."
"Barrister."
"Please sit."
She did, unsure what to expect.
"I've read the panel notes," he began, "and the petition from the chief. There are gaps."
Jessica said nothing.
"Your name has been dragged," he continued. "But not just your name — your records, your logs, your credibility. I've seen documents that don't match the originals. I've seen your reports edited."
Jessica leaned forward. "You've seen the real ones?"
He nodded. "Someone in the health board leaked them to me anonymously. And someone else is making sure those originals disappear."
Her throat went dry. "Who?"
"I don't know. Yet. But I want to help you. If you'll let me."
Jessica's voice was low. "Why?"
Emeka gave a faint smile. "Because the law isn't for the loudest voice. It's for the truth. And I believe yours hasn't been heard yet."
Jessica stared at him.
Then, finally, she nodded.
And just like that, silence began to scream.
Jessica arrived earlier than scheduled the next day, the dawn still yawning over the city.
The corridors were even quieter now. Almost reverent. She passed a janitor who didn’t smile, only nodded, his mop gliding over tiles like it too knew to stay silent.
She stood outside the NICU, watching from the narrow glass pane as a nurse adjusted a machine beside a crib. The screen showed a heart rate, steady and slow. The baby barely moved.
Jessica entered slowly.
Nurse Grace, one of the night staff, turned around.
“You again,” she said, more tired than unkind.
“I came early. I wanted to... observe,” Jessica replied.
Grace motioned toward a stool. “Sit. Don’t touch.”
Jessica nodded and opened her notebook.
She wrote:
Room A – six cribs occupied. All babies untagged by name. Labeled by numeric codes. Minimal interaction. No mother visits observed.
She looked up.
A soft moan escaped one crib. Jessica leaned forward slightly. The baby’s arms twitched, eyes fluttering. He looked... hungry?
Nurse Grace didn’t move.
“Shouldn’t he be fed?” Jessica asked.
“He’s on scheduled formula. Every four hours. Strict chart.”
“But if he’s hungry—”
“Protocol,” Grace cut in.
Jessica frowned and looked at the clipboard beside the crib. The ID read: B3-1103. Next to it: Weight stable. Intake on track. Monitor only.
Jessica jotted the details down. She had a growing list now—ID numbers, feeding gaps, responses that didn’t quite feel like care.
She glanced toward the staff desk where files were stacked.
“Nurse Grace... are mothers not allowed to visit these babies?”
“Some. Depends on the contract.”
“Contract?”
But again, no answer.
Jessica tucked her questions back into silence.
Later that afternoon, she shadowed Dr. Ilori on his rounds. He was tall, immaculately dressed, and strangely... detached.
He paused beside a crib, glanced at the monitor, and dictated:
“Infant B3-1103. No signs of distress. Vitals stable. Continue observation.”
Jessica raised a hand.
“Yes?” Dr. Ilori said.
“I observed the infant earlier. He seemed unsettled. Is there a plan for holding or comforting these babies? Human contact?”
Ilori looked at her. A long, unreadable pause.
“We don’t encourage imprinting at this stage. It complicates transitions.”
“Transitions to...?”
He didn’t reply.
Just walked on.
That evening, in the breakroom, Jessica finally replied to Kemi’s text.
“The babies here aren’t all sick. Some are... waiting. But for what?”
Kemi responded almost instantly:
“Maybe it’s just how they do things in big city hospitals?”
Jessica didn’t answer.
She stared at her notes. At the names that weren’t names. At the words she was collecting that seemed disconnected from care.
She remembered something from her lectures: Neonatal Attachment Windows—critical days when babies formed their first emotional bonds.
But these children...
They were being kept in emotional silence.
She scribbled one more line:
I’m afraid we’re not nursing them. We’re preparing them for something else.
She underlined it twice.
Outside, rain had started to fall. Soft at first. Then harder, drumming like a warning on the breakroom window.
Jessica looked up.
She didn’t say it aloud, but she knew:
Something here was very wrong.
And now she wasn’t just curious.
- Writer
