Chapter 4: Shadows in the Heart

I work in HR. When it comes to reading people and relationships, I sabi pass most people.

All the trainings and seminars, all the years handling staff wahala, don teach me to notice small things. Body language, silence, eyes—na there real story dey hide. Na for body language you go know where pepper dey enter soup.

So I could tell sharp sharp: Musa’s strange behaviour today was all for that soup—for Amara.

No be ordinary kindness. Something about the way he serve her—like person wey dey beg for forgiveness or try show care.

Why would Musa suddenly care so much about Amara?

That question dey bite me. My mind dey race. My hand grip my stomach, trying to calm myself.

I couldn’t help but remember two months ago.

Baba Efe’s papa died. Musa, as someone from the same town, went to pay respect and visited his in-laws too. He stayed five days, and came back with Baba Efe and his wife.

That time, I dey travel for work, so no fit follow. Musa call me every night, but his voice get one kain tiredness.

Maybe something happened during that time?

I start dey count dates, replay calls for my mind, watching for anything I miss.

My professional mind told me not to jump to conclusions. After all, Musa still treated me well.

He still dey buy me suya for night, still dey remind me to take my vitamins. If wahala dey, I suppose see am, abi?

We met by the campus lake in university. He was always the first to arrive for morning reading.

That memory sweet me; his slippers print dey always mark the sand before mine.

I was always second.

We dey meet for that mango tree behind Faculty of Arts, where ground dey always red with sand. I go find am under mango tree, head bent over book. We no talk much then, but I feel safe.

We were alike—both from small towns, poor families. For three generations, our families poured everything into making us their pride.

He tell me say his papa use last money buy secondhand laptop, my mama sell corn to pay my school fees. Our dreams joined, hoping to change family story.

For years, all the pressure and all the praise was on us, and we just kept pushing, never daring to slack.

We carry family name on our head, as if we dey carry full basin of water across market square. Mistake no fit enter.

I thought I’d finally found a companion. Like, after struggling alone at the bottom of a dark sea, I realised I wasn’t alone after all.

When I see Musa, I feel say God remember me, give me person wey go understand my wahala without long talk.

I thought, to him, I meant the same…

Now, small doubt begin creep for my mind, like rat enter store room. I dey fear say maybe I be only one dey feel this way.

I didn’t say anything about what happened at the table that day.

Sometimes silence dey protect peace. I just carry my thoughts, wrap them like old wrapper, hide am under pillow.

That night, he held me, desire burning in his eyes.

He pull me close, hand resting gently for my belly, his breath warm for my neck.

"Zainab, not yet?"

His voice soft, almost pleading. I turn face away, heart beating fast.

"Mm, not yet three months. Let’s wait."

I rub my stomach, thinking of all the warning aunties give—"No rough play till belle stable."

He breathed heavily a few times, got out of bed, and said helplessly, "I go baff cold water."

He drag slippers, walking slow go bathroom. The door close soft, but the pain for his voice loud for my ear.

I was already half asleep when he woke me up.

His hand tap my shoulder, face tense. Sleep clear from my eyes.

He was frowning.

His phone dey ring, and he dey read message with worry.

"Baba Efe don drunk, dey break things for house. I need go check."

I sigh, not again. The man wahala too much.

"Who call you?" I asked.

My voice small, almost begging him to stay.

"…Na his wife. For phone, she and the pikin dey cry. E be like say e serious."

His voice shaky, concern deep. I look him, wondering if na only friendship dey push am.

I checked my phone. It was past eleven.

The clock blink 11:19pm. My body already tired, pregnancy wahala no let me sleep well.

"It’s too late—no go. If e too bad, make she call community vigilante. Besides, na their family wahala; you no even relate—"

I dey reason say make we rest, no go put head for another man matter this night. My own health dey my mind.

"Zainab."

Musa suddenly cut me off, his voice sharp.

The way he call my name, I feel cold for body. Na tone wey I never hear before.

I was shocked.

I stare am, mouth open small. My Musa, talk to me like stranger?

He looked impatient, with a kind of sarcasm I’d never seen before.

His eye narrow, lips press together. E pain am for something deeper than ordinary.

"When you come dey so selfish? Now wey you dey alright, you go just dey look your own people suffer? You know as Amara be—if she get any other choice, she no go ask me for help. Zainab, you no shame to dey talk like this to friend?"

His words cut deep. Shame rise for my chest. But why he dey defend her like that?

I looked at him, shocked—like I no even know am again.

I swallow spit, my eyes hot. I try remember the Musa wey always put me first.

I never argue with anybody for long—not with colleagues, not with family, not even with Musa. I realised early that argument no dey solve anything; e just dey turn talk to fight when emotion don high. Even if you argue, na just means to end. Anger dey only hurt yourself.

My papa always say, "Word wey you talk for anger, na like stone throw for market—you no fit control who e go hit." I just keep calm.

So I closed my eyes and calmly asked:

"The life wey I get now, na me hustle for am. Why I go dey shame because another person dey suffer?"

My voice steady, but my heart dey break. Everybody dey fight him own battle for this life.

Musa stood by the bed, looking at me coldly.

He pause, hand still for door handle, like person wey dey decide whether to enter rain. I no fit reach him that night. The air between us thick like ogbono.

"I must go tonight."

He grab car key, no look me again.

I no even know when Musa come back that night. When I left for work, his shoes dey by the door, the small bedroom door locked tight.

I peep the lock, sigh. I carry my bag, waka comot, my chest heavy.

That day, I had one big meeting at work. I couldn’t let him spoil my mood.

I fix powder, wear my best Ankara, hold head high. HR woman must not let house wahala spoil office sharpness.