COLD FIRE: 1

Chapped lips and parched skin become dominant features during the harmattan season. I used to surreptitiously borrow lip gloss from Sister Amara to combat this. It’s during this season that wildfires can break out, spreading faster than the wind itself. It was amidst this period that our family found itself under intense scrutiny due to the sudden media interest revolving around Sister Amara. While my father sought answers to the chaos, my mother simply wanted to bury the issue, worn down mentally by the relentless ordeal. Father Matthew made it a point to mention Sister Amara in every mass, offering prayers for her gentle soul to find peace and for her murderers to face justice.

After unceasing weeks of prayer and fasting, the police delivered the news that they had identified a prime suspect: her friend Chrissy. It felt as though our prayers had finally been answered, bringing an end to two weeks of fervent hope. My father insisted on questioning Chrissy, and my mother naturally accompanied him, desperately seeking closure over who could perpetrate such a heinous act against her daughter.

The brutality of Amara’s murder haunted me in my dreams. She would oscillate between happiness and sadness, with one particularly haunting dream featuring blood streaming from her eyes. I confided every one of these nightmares in Father, who became increasingly reluctant to leave me alone at home.

Meeting Chrissy in person was nothing like I had imagined. I had anticipated seeing a reflection of Sister Amara – her multiple ear piercings and bold makeup that always vexed my mother. Instead, Chrissy appeared with an unadorned, flawless face and spoke in such a calm manner that it was inconceivable she could cause harm to a fly. We sat in the station’s office surrounded by portraits of prominent figures, yearning for justice to be served for Sister Amara. I prayed that Chrissy’s involvement would bring an end to this torment, possibly allowing Amara’s spirit to finally rest.

The feeling of powerlessness at that moment brought back memories of the scorching afternoon when our world had crumbled before us.

We lived just behind the University, with both my parents working there. Father served as the secretary for Professor Nduka in the Sociology department, while Mother was employed in the social sciences faculty. Father often returned home with captivating tales, but one day, his usual radiance was overshadowed by an expression of distress. The smile that was a constant on his caramel face had vanished, replaced by a sense of impending darkness.

“Nno, Welcome,” I greeted hesitantly, sensing an unsettling aura. Father brushed past my greeting, hastening into the house, his mind clearly preoccupied. This was unlike anything I had witnessed before; he seemed lost in a labyrinth of his thoughts.

Outside, fear kept me rooted against the wall by the door. The tension hung heavy, and I dreaded the possibility of being the target of his disappointment – the supposed golden child. Even when Sister Amara had disappeared for two weeks with her boyfriend, Father hadn’t displayed this kind of demeanour. She had claimed to be attending classes, but it turned out she was unwell in a hospital. Yet, Father’s smile had remained steadfast.

As the group of mourners approached our street, with Mother at the forefront, wailing the loudest, I observed the scene. With each step closer to our house, my heart raced in anticipation of the terrible news that had to be coming. Even Mama Dooshima and Mrs. Vincent, Professor Vincent’s elegant wife, were there, assisting my mother, who was struggling to walk properly. It was a surreal sight – my mother, who exuded strength, now needed support amidst a procession of mourners.

Father emerged from the house, and I inquired anxiously, “What’s going on? Is Mom hurt? Was there an accident?”

Father’s silence was deafening as he collapsed onto the pavement, tears glistening in his eyes for the first time in my fifteen years of existence.

Read the next part here: COLD FIRE (Part 2)