THE GIRL WHO CAME BACK AFTER 7 YEARS

*THE GIRL WHO CAME BACK AFTER 7 YEARS - Chapter 1: The Ghost at the Gate* The first person to see me was Mama Nosa, the woman who sells akara at the junction of our street in Upper Sakponba. She screamed. Not small scream. The kind of scream that makes dogs bark and children run. Her akara spoon fell into hot oil and she didn't even pick it. "Abomination!" she shouted, pointing at me. "Wicked spirit! Go back!" I didn't understand. I was just standing there, barefoot, my dress torn at the shoulder, dust on my feet. My belly was big. Six months big, at least. I held it with one hand because my wrapper kept slipping. I looked down at myself. I was not a spirit. I was breathing. Sweating. "Mama Nosa, na me," I whispered. My voice was hoarse. Like I hadn't used it in long time. "Na Ivie." She screamed louder. "Ivie died! Ivie died seven years ago! Her mother did burial! Go away!" Seven years? Died? I shook my head. I tried to walk past her. My legs were weak. Each step felt like I was learning how to walk again. People started gathering. Okada men stopped. Women left their shops. One small boy ran ahead shouting, "Come o! Come see! Ivie don come back!" I kept walking. I knew this road. I knew every pothole. Even with dust in my eyes, I knew the turn to our compound. The mango tree still there. The tap that always leaked, still leaking. Our gate was blue. It used to be blue. Now it was faded, with rust. But it was still blue. I pushed it. My mother was in the yard pounding yam. She was fatter than I remembered, hair more grey. She was wearing the wrapper I bought for her before... before what? She looked up when gate creaked. Her pestle fell from her hand. Same as Mama Nosa's akara spoon. Silence. "Ivie?" she said. Just that. My name. But like question and prayer at same time. "Mama," I said, and tears finally came. Hot, fast tears. "Na me, mama." She didn't move. She just stared at my face, then at my belly, then at my bare feet. "They said you drowned," she whispered. "At Ikpoba River. After school. They found your sandal. Your school bag. We did burial. We cried. Your father... your father died from crying." My father? My father was strong. He carried me on his shoulder. "Where is papa?" I asked. My mother started shaking. "Ivie, where have you been? Where have you been for seven years?" Seven years again. I tried to remember. My head pained me. Sharp pain at back, like someone hit me there long time ago. "I... I don't know," I said honestly. "I woke up near the river this morning. I was... I was inside a house. White house. Then I was walking. I just knew road to home." "White house?" My mother came closer now, slowly, like I would disappear. She touched my face. Her hand was rough and warm. Real. "Ivie, you disappeared when you were 14. You are 21 now. Look at you." 14 to 21. Seven years. I touched my belly. "Mama, I think I'm pregnant." She looked at my belly and her face changed. Not happy. Fear. "Who is responsible?" she asked sharply. "I don't know," I cried. "I don't know, mama. I don't remember." That was when my younger brother, Osas, came out of the house. He was 10 when I left. Now he was tall, with small moustache, wearing Uniben shirt. He stopped at door. Mouth open. "Ivie?" he said. Then he ran to me and hugged me so tight my belly pressed between us. He was crying. "You came back," he kept saying. "You really came back." Neighbors were now inside our compound. Everywhere. Shouting, praying, some videoing with phone. "Mama Ivie, call pastor!" "Call police!" "This one na mammy water!" "No, na kidnapping!" My mother shouted, "Everybody out! Out of my compound!" They went, but stayed at gate, peeping. Inside house, my mother locked door. She brought me water, bread, wrapper to cover my torn dress. "Eat," she said. I ate like I had not eaten in days. Maybe I hadn't. Osas sat on floor staring at me. "Mama, where is papa's picture?" I asked, looking at wall where his picture used to be. My mother didn't answer. She just cleaned my feet with warm water and towel. Then she asked quietly, "Ivie, that house... white house you said... was there a man there?" I closed my eyes to remember. Flash came. Quick flash. White wall. Curtain. A man with soft voice saying "Ivie, don't go outside." A locked door. The smell of Dettol. "Yes," I whispered. "A man." My mother dropped towel. "What is his name?" she asked, voice shaking. "I... I don't know. But he called me... he called me something else. Not Ivie." "What did he call you?" I held my head. Pain again. "He called me... Ada." My mother gasped. Stood up. "Ada is what your father used to call you when you were small," she said. How did a stranger know my father's nickname for me? Outside, gate banged. Loud. "Ivie! Open gate!" A man's voice shouted. Young man voice. Urgent. Osas ran to window. "Na Efosa," he said. "Your... your boyfriend before." Efosa? The name rang bell. Secondary school. He used to buy me Gala. My mother looked at my belly again, then at door. "Ivie," she said, grabbing my hand tight. "If you don't remember anything, don't tell anybody anything. Not Efosa. Not police. Not pastor. You hear me?" "Why?" I asked. "Because the day you disappeared, Efosa was the last person who saw you. And he told police you entered a black car by yourself. He said you ran away because you didn't want to marry him after school." I felt cold despite hot afternoon. I did not run away. I would never enter black car by myself. So Efosa lied. And now he was banging at my gate, 7 years later, shouting my name like he still owned it. The banging got louder. And my belly kicked. For first time.