Chapter 1: Birthday Shadows

My papa love my mama pass anything, but na because of me my mama die.

Sometimes, for those silent evenings when generator hum dey fill every corner of the boys’ quarters, I go siddon near window, squeezing Mama’s old wrapper for hand, dey think if love fit spoil overnight, or if spirit still dey waka for this house. Na only Mama face I dey see—she dey always smile, even for my dream. E be like say her memory dey guard me for dark.

Later, papa carry another pikin join body.

When he bring the girl, na with plenty ceremony. Neighbours gather, dey whisper, dey greet. For that moment, I just siddon for one corner, dey watch as new wahala enter house. Na so dem dey do, say make the wound no heal.

Dem say her real mama get accident, na why Papa adopt am—compound people still dey talk.

The pikin wey he adopt, Ifeoma, resemble my mama well well.

Na her eyes first strike me—that clear look, soft like Mama own, but her mouth dey run like tap—always get reply. Sometimes, she go smile like say na Mama, other times her laughter go fill everywhere, scatter my head. People for compound dey talk say spirit dey do wonders.

On top our sixteenth birthday—

The morning carry harmattan breeze, even the sun dey shy. Mr. Nnamdi dey move up and down, dey bark order, but him eye just dey shine for Ifeoma. I help arrange cooler of rice outside, but nobody send me. My heart dey wait, dey hope small, even though I sabi say today go be like every other year.

He carry Ifeoma like say she be small princess, but me, all the guests dey look me like say I be housemaid pikin.

Dem dey use eye measure me, the way aunty for market go size up tomato wey don begin spoil. Children dey run follow Ifeoma, dey call her 'Madam.' Me, na only 'Hey, you!'

The smell of fried puff-puff and diesel from generator mix for air, children dey lick ice cream for one corner.

Na that time, my phone ring.

For that moment, na only the ringtone break the silence wey dey press my chest. E sound like small hope for big noise.

"Baby, happy birthday."

The voice gentle, familiar—like breeze wey blow from old days.

"E don tey. Mummy miss you scatter."

For one second, my heart jump. I swallow spit, hand begin shake small, but I still answer, voice low.

Me:

Mama don come back.