The Kweku Chronicles

CHAPTER 10: OLD FLAMES, NEW SCARS

The night was quiet, save for the occasional hiss of passing cars on the wet road below. In his dimly lit bedroom, Kweku zipped open his suitcase, folding shirts and jeans with practiced indifference. His dreadlocks were tied back, a worn white T-shirt clung to his frame, and the fan above whirred softly. A Ghanaian highlife song played faintly in the background from his speaker, an old favorite from his childhood. His phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up, hopeful. It was just a bank alert. He sighed, glanced at his w******p chat with Simi, and tapped out another message:

‎KWEKU: “Hey… Just checking in. I’m leaving for Ghana tomorrow. Thought I’d hear from you.” He stared at the message for a few seconds before hitting send. No blue ticks. No reply. Just then, there was a soft knock at the door. He frowned.

‎“Who’s that?” he called out, walking over. The door creaked open, revealing Ama. She stepped in slowly, her body outlined by the hallway light. A black tank top and jeans clung to her curves, and she held a small bag in one hand. "Ama? What are you doing here?" "You’re leaving the day after tomorrow, right? I booked the same flight. I figured I’d come by and confirm details. Didn’t want us awkwardly bumping into each other at the airport."

‎She stepped inside, glancing around the room like she’d once owned it. In truth, she had or at least, she thought she did. Kweku stepped back, letting her in. "I was just packing." Ama dropped her bag on the couch. Her eyes lingered on the suitcase, then drifted to his face. "You look tired. And thinner. Ghana will do you good."

‎Kweku smiled faintly, forcing a nod. "Maybe." There was silence between them, thick and tinged with memory. She moved closer. "You don’t have to act like we’re strangers. I’m not here to fight. I just… wanted to see you." He didn’t reply. His heart was thumping for reasons he couldn’t explain. Or didn’t want to. Ama sat beside the suitcase and picked up one of his folded shirts. She sniffed it playfully. “Still smells like you. Funny how scents don’t change even when people do.” He chuckled. “Ama…”

‎“What?”

‎“I’m seeing someone.” She tilted her head. “Are you? I haven’t seen her around. Doesn’t seem like she wants to be seen.”

‎He frowned. “Don’t do that.” Ama stood up and walked toward him, slowly. “You remember what it felt like when it was just us? Before things got messy?” Kweku didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Her hand reached up, brushing lightly against his chest.

‎“I miss you,” she whispered. He swallowed hard. "You should go."

‎"Do you want me to?" Her question hung in the air, dangerous and familiar. He didn’t move. She stepped closer and touched his face. Then she kissed him. It was slow, tentative at first, then urgent, a rekindling of something buried but never truly dead. He should have stopped it. He didn’t. She unzipped his shirt, fingers tracing his collarbone. Her breath was hot on his neck. “Don’t think,” she murmured. His mind fought, but his body betrayed him. He kissed her back, hands sliding around her waist. She moaned against his lips, tugging at his waistband. They tumbled onto the bed, a mess of limbs and memories. Clothes came off slowly, deliberately. Her touch was familiar, too familiar. He shut his eyes, but her face blurred, replaced with Simi’s. The curve of her mouth, the softness of her laugh… it was Simi he saw. It was Simi he craved. But it was Ama he had. Their bodies moved in rhythm, feverish and hungry. She kissed his neck, back arched as she straddled him. He held her hips, staring into her eyes and seeing someone else. Guilt chewed at his insides, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. She moaned his name again and again, nails dragging down his chest, lips tracing a line down his torso.

‎They moved together like waves crashing against rocks. The mattress creaked, the fan buzzed louder, and somewhere in the mix of sweat and sounds, he finished with a quiet grunt, a choked apology buried under Ama’s gasps of pleasure. Afterward, they lay silent. Her fingers lazily traced circles on his chest.

‎“I missed this,” she murmured. He didn’t respond.

‎Sleep found her quickly. Not him. Kweku rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom. The cold shower hit his skin like truth. He let the water run through his dreadlocks, down his face, down his back, baptizing him in shame. He had betrayed something tender. Something innocent. Simi. They had only kissed, touched in whispers, and exchanged vulnerable words. She had been careful with him. Patient. Respectful. And he? He gave himself to someone else out of weakness. He leaned against the tiles, fists clenched. He thought of texting her, but his guilt held him back. What would he say? That she was right? That maybe he hadn’t really let go of Ama? Kweku closed his eyes. The water ran. His chest tightened. Maybe he wasn’t who he thought he was. And maybe Simi deserved better.

The hospital light hummed faintly behind her as Simi sat on the curb outside, her sweater drawn tightly over her chest. The Abuja night wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t kind either. It had that heavy hush that made you feel alone even when people passed by. Somewhere in the distance, a generator coughed and muttered into the night. Her phone screen lit her face softly. She scrolled without direction. Messages she hadn’t replied. Old photos. One video of her father dancing at a church thanksgiving that she sent from his phone to hers earlier. She swiped again. Then paused. A message. From Kweku.

‎It was sent hours ago. She blinked once, her thumb hovering over it, heart thumping with something that wasn’t quite joy. She didn’t open it immediately. Just let the screen dim again. Like pretending it hadn’t happened would make the ache in her chest easier to carry. She didn’t realize someone had walked up until their shadow joined hers.

‎"Hello," the voice said, calm and male, tinged with hesitation. She looked up slowly. A tall guy stood beside her, jeans, white tee, brown skin kissed in all the right places by sun and soap. He held out a cup of steaming coffee. "Care for coffee?" Simi shook her head and managed a tired smile. “No, thank you.” He didn’t insist. Just sat beside her on the pavement, giving her enough space to breathe. For a while, neither of them said anything. Cars passed in slow motion. The wind played with the leaves of the mango tree nearby. "I’m Ikem," he said finally, glancing sideways. She glanced back. “Simi.”

‎“Simi,” he repeated, nodding once like the name already meant something. “I came to check on my best friend. He collapsed at work earlier. Exhaustion, they said. His people live in Enugu. I live close by so... here I am.” She looked at him more carefully now. There was a tiredness behind his eyes, but not the kind that asked for pity. “My dad’s sick,” she replied. “He’s been here for a while now. Some days are worse than others.”

‎“I’m sorry,” he said, not in the way people usually say it, empty and automatic but like he meant it. Simi nodded. They didn’t need to say too much after that. Their silence stretched out, comfortable like a thin shawl draped over both of them. A nurse walked past, humming. A cat darted across the compound. The night went on like an old woman telling a long story. Around 1:00 AM, Ikem stood up.

‎“I should go check on him again,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Simi.”

‎“You too.”

‎He offered a small smile, nodded once, and walked back into the building. She watched until he disappeared past the swinging doors. Then, she stood up too. Her legs were a bit stiff, but her mind even stiffer. She walked back to her father’s ward slowly, past the water dispenser, past the nurses’ desk, through the corridor that still smelled like antiseptic and baby powder. He was asleep. His chest rising and falling like waves she used to draw as a child. Simi sat beside him. She opened her phone again. Kweku’s message was still there.

‎She stared at it long this time. Thought of replying. She wanted to tell him about how Abuja smelled different at night. How her dad had been too weak to speak that morning. How she met someone named Ikem. How her lips still remembered the weight of his mouth on theirs under the van light. Or how that night by the fire, suya in hand, he looked at her like he wanted to memorize her smile. But her fingers didn’t move. Because how do you reach out to someone who’s already halfway gone. She locked the screen. Let the phone fall to her lap. And folded into the chair, the way children do when they’re waiting for someone to come home.