CHAPTER 3: WHAT THE CAMERA DIDN'T CATCH
1259 Words
There are things people never say out loud. Wounds they learn to tuck under laughter, truths they only whisper to mirrors, and questions that cling like perfume even after the bottle is thrown away. This chapter is about those things.
Asaba, Two Days Later -5:14 p.m.
Rain tapped gently against the aluminum roof of the costume trailer. Inside, Simi was alone. The generator buzzed in the background, powering a single fan that turned slowly, pushing warm air around. Her sketchpad lay open beside her, but she wasn’t drawing. Instead, she was staring at the window, watching rivulets form snake trails down the glass.
A text blinked on her phone from the producer: “Scene 17 moved to tomorrow. You can rest tonight.” Rest. She snorted softly. What a strange thing to offer someone who had never really known peace. She reached into her tote and pulled out an old picture worn at the corners, the colors faded with time. Her mother, radiant in a blue gele, sat in a chair shaped like a throne. Her father stood beside her, stiff and tall in a senator-style agbada. And there she was little Simi in between them, smiling too wide, trying too hard. She touched the image, thumb brushing against her father’s ghost.
***
Abuja, Eleven Years Ago - Age 13
Simi sat outside the principal’s office, eyes stinging, palms clenched. Her father stood nearby, not pacing, no. He didn’t pace. He stood like a court judge, arms behind his back, rage silent but sharpened. “You know what your mother told me?” he asked her quietly. She shook her head. “She said you cut the sleeves of that school uniform to make it look... fashionable.” His voice dipped, venom in velvet. “You think this is a joke?” “I didn’t....” she started. He raised one hand. Not to hit ,not yet. But she flinched all the same.
That was the thing about growing up in their house. The violence wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was a look. A silence. A shame planted like a seed in your chest. Later that night, her mother would cry and tell her, “You know how your father is. Just... don’t provoke him.”
But Simi was born with sparks in her blood. And eventually, she stopped apologizing for being lit.
***
Present Day-Asaba
There was a knock at the trailer door. Not rushed. Not casual. Intentional.She didn’t need to guess. “Kweku,” she said softly as she opened the door. He stood there, hoodie over his head, a bottle of malt in hand. “Rain,” he said, gesturing behind him. “Come in.” Inside, the air shifted. He handed her the malt. She took it. Their fingers brushed. Something in her chest tightened. “I thought you were scouting new light angles,” she said. “I was. Then I remembered what rain does to my brain.” She raised a brow. “And what’s that?” “Makes it loud. So I look for quieter spaces.” She tilted her head. “And I’m a quiet space?” He didn’t answer. Just watched her. It unnerved her how seen she felt in his presence. As if he was always filming but only her, and only when she thought no one was watching. She sat. He followed. The fan hummed. Outside, thunder grumbled like an old god.“Can I ask you something?” she said. He nodded. “Where are you really from? I mean, I know you’re Ghanaian, but you... don’t sound like Accra boys. And you don’t act like the others I’ve met.” He leaned back, stretching his legs. A long pause. “I was born in Cape Coast. Grew up in Takoradi. My father was a fisherman. My mother was a seamstress.” She blinked. “A seamstress?” He nodded. “She made bridal clothes. Always had needle pricks on her fingers. Said the best fabrics are the ones that make you bleed a little.” Simi smiled faintly. “That sounds like something my mother would never say.”
“Why?” “She didn’t believe in softness. Or blood. Just obedience.” She didn’t know why she said that. But it slipped out, like a secret too tired to hide. He looked at her for a moment longer, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a charm, a small, woven knot of red thread and cowrie. “She made this,” he said. “Before she died.” Simi’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry.” He shrugged. “It was years ago. A storm took my father’s boat. He never came back. She died two years later. Some say heartbreak. Some say malaria. All I know is I left Takoradi the day after her funeral.” She was silent.
He continued, “I stayed with my uncle in Accra. But I didn’t belong there. So I ran. Got into photography. Then cinematography. My camera became the only thing I trusted.”Another silence.
Then she whispered, “You ever miss home?” He didn’t hesitate. “Every day. But sometimes, missing is safer than returning.” Simi stood and walked to the rack of clothes behind her. She ran her fingers along the rows of fabric.
“You know,” she said slowly, “I didn’t speak to my father for five years after I left university.” “What happened?”
“He wanted me to be a lawyer. Like him. I chose fashion. He said I was wasting my life, my potential, his money. One day I just... left. No goodbye. I moved to Lagos, started designing for music videos. Eventually got into film.”
“And your mother?” “She died last year. Breast cancer. Quietly. As always.”Kweku stood and walked toward her. Stood beside her. Too close. But just enough. “You’re still carrying that,” he said. "Yes.” He nodded. “Me too.” They didn’t speak again for a while. Just stood there surrounded by fabric, memory, and a thunderstorm neither of them could name. That night... They didn’t kiss. They didn’t touch. They just shared stories. About Simi’s first failed dress launch. About the time Kweku fell asleep behind a RED camera and woke to a lion on set. About shame. About hunger. About the ache of wanting something you’re afraid to reach for. When the rain stopped, he left. She locked the trailer behind him. Adjusted her line of clothes and left to her room too. But sleep did not come easy. Because somehow, what they’d just shared was more intimate than skin.
Two Days Later -Wedding Scene Reshoots
Simi was threading coral beads onto a delicate net when someone handed her a fresh drawing, a sketch of her, sitting by a window, looking out at the rain.She looked up. Kweku winked. Walked away.
Her fingers trembled around the beads.
- Writer
