THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

The compound in Woji had always been quiet. It was the kind of place where everyone knew whose pot was whose, where Mama Nkechi kept a mental record of who fetched water last, and where the only real entertainment was the small generator that coughed to life every evening at seven. Chinedu liked it that way. At twenty-eight, with a remote customer service job that barely paid the bills and a laptop that was slowly dying, he had learned to appreciate quiet. Room 4 was his sanctuary. Until she arrived. He first saw her on a Tuesday afternoon, struggling with a large Ghana-must-go bag at the rusted gate. The Port Harcourt sun was merciless. She was small, with skin the color of polished ebony, and hair packed into two low cornrows. She wore a simple yellow gown that had seen better days, but on her, it looked elegant. There was something familiar about her face, something he couldn't place. "Are you the caretaker?" she asked, looking directly at him where he sat outside Room 4, trying to get network. "No. Room 4. Chinedu. My father owns this compound. Caretaker no dey around." Her shoulders dropped slightly. She looked exhausted. Not just physically tired, but the kind of tired that comes from running. "I paid for Room 5. Since yesterday. The agent said I could move in today. I am Amara." Amara. Room 5 had been empty for three months. It used to belong to her father, before he died. Wait. "Amara? Chief Obinna daughter?" Her eyes widened. "You know me?" "You no remember me? We used to play ten-ten for backyard when we small. I be Chinedu, Mama Caro pikin. Room 1." Recognition flashed in her eyes, then something else — shame. "You have changed," she whispered. "You too. You been dey Lagos, abi? We hear say you marry." Her smile died instantly. Chinedu stood up quickly. "Sorry. Make I help you." He carried the heavy bag to the front of Room 5. The padlock was rusted. Inside, it smelled of dust, old cement, and abandonment. This was where she grew up, before her father sent her to live with her aunt in Lagos three years ago. "Thank you," she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. He left her to arrange her things, but he found himself unable to focus on his laptop. Through the thin plywood wall, he could see her shadow moving. He could hear her humming softly — a low, melancholic song his mother used to sing. Later that evening, as the rain began to patter gently on the zinc roofs and NEPA took light as usual, she knocked on his door frame. She held two small packets of Gala and one cold La Casera she had bought from the kiosk. "I don't have much yet," she said, a little shy, her voice barely above the rain. "But neighbors share, right? That's what my father always said." Chinedu stared at the Gala. No one in this compound had ever shared anything with him. Not since his mother died. "Right," he said, taking it. "Neighbors share." She sat on the edge of his small bench outside Room 4, careful to leave space between them, and they ate in silence, listening to the rain hitting the buckets placed strategically in the compound. "What made you come back?" he finally asked. She was quiet for a long time. The rain answered for her. "I needed a new start," she said at last. "Lagos... Lagos was not good for me." Chinedu nodded. He understood new starts. He didn't push. That night, as Chinedu lay on his bed, sweating despite the rain because there was no light for his fan, he heard a sound from Room 5. It was not humming. It was a phone call. And a woman crying, trying to keep her voice low and failing. "Please, Ebuka. Please don't look for me. I beg you. Let me go. I have left everything. I don't want anything." Then a man's voice, so loud and full of venom it carried through the thin wall even without a speaker, shouting words that made Chinedu's blood run cold. "I will kill you if I find you, Amara. You hear me? You are my wife. You cannot run. I will find you even in that your father's useless house in Port Harcourt. I will kill you!" The line went dead. Silence returned to the compound, heavier than before. Amara's muffled sobs seeped through the wall. Chinedu sat up in the dark, his fists clenched. His quiet compound would never be quiet again. And the girl next door, who he used to play ten-ten with as a child, had just brought a dangerous storm with her.