Dark Series

                                                       COLD FIRE       

Chapped lips and dry skin are predominant features during harmattan seasons. I always had lip gloss I would steal from Sister Amara. It is during this season a wild fire breaks and spreads faster than wind itself. It was during this period everyone was fixated on my family. The media’s sudden increased interest in my family was attributed to Sister Amara. Father needed answers, all Mother wanted to do was to bury the issue. She was mentally exhausted and drained from all this process. Fr Matthew never stopped mentioning Sister Amara in every mass he officiated. Praying for her gentle soul to find peace and that her murderers be brought to book.

The police informed us that they had found a major suspect. It suddenly felt like God finally had answered us after two weeks of non stop praying and fasting. It was her friend Chrissy. Father requested to question Chrissy and naturally mother joined. Deep down she knew she wanted answers to who would kill her daughter in cold blood. Who could have the heart to stab Amara 52 times and strip her naked. I have nightmares of Sister Amara. Some days she appeared to be happy and other days she was sad. In a particular dream she had blood coming out of her eyes. I told Father every one of those dreams. He was terrified of leaving me at home alone.

Chrissy was not like what I imagined. I expected her to have Sister Amara’s crazy multiple piercings on the ear and her loud make up which drives mother insane. She rather had a bare spotless face. She spoke so calmly that it was impossible to imagine her hurting a fly. We were seated at the station’s office of the officer in-charge of the case. There was a picture of President Goodluck Ebele Jonathan, the IGP and the DPO. I wondered if we could find justice for Sister Amara. I prayed Chrissy had a hand in it so we could end this chapter of our lives, perhaps Sister Amara would stop visiting. Seated here being powerless reminded me of that hot afternoon when our world came crashing down. 

We lived behind the University. Father and Mother were both non-academic staff of the university. Father worked as the secretary for Professor Nduka of Sociology department, while Mother worked in the social sciences faculty. On some days when father would come back from work, he had wonderful stories to tell. They all ranged from students to the infamous Professor Nduka and his highhandedness in handling students. Father would always brag about how the big boys respected him. I soon found myself imagining being a professor too. 

Today wasn’t like every other kind of day when Father came home with excitement and wonderful stories. He wore a worn face. The once beautiful bright caramel face that always wore a smile was lost. I thought he had lost his job or something had happened to his role model, Professor Nduka. 

“Nno, Welcome.” I greeted. I had my back pressed against the wall by the door side unable to move an inch. Usually I would embrace Father in a tight hug and he would jokingly say I’ve crushed all his vital organs. The air between us was dry, something evil was lurking; the fact that Father ignored my greetings and walked past me into the house in a haste. He looked lost.

For a long time I stood outside afraid of going inside. I have never seen Father in such a sour mood. Even when I had dropped down from my perfect first position to third position last term, he didn’t have this mood. I was afraid that he was going to lash out his disappointment on me. Perhaps I’m his golden child. Not even the other time Sister Amara had run off with her boyfriend to Owerri for two weeks. Father and Mother had thought she was in school not until Mother got word from a lecturer that Sister Amara had missed a compulsory test because she was terribly sick and was being nursed in the hospital. Father did not lose his smile. Whatever it was that had taken the smile off his face must be terrible. I decided to stay outside rather than facing him. 

I sighted a group of mourning people approaching our street from the bend. It was difficult picking out their faces but as they drew closer making it obvious they were approaching our house, I sighted mother right in the midst of these women wailing. It would be difficult not to see her, she practically wailed the most. My heart skipped at the thought of something terrible that must have happened. Mother’s fine ankara wrapper was loose from her waist, and another strange woman i didn’t know tried to secure it. I could see her inner garment. She wasn’t bothered about this. Mama Dooshima and Mrs Vincent Professor Vincent’s elegant wife assisted Mother on both sides.  It was strange seeing my mother unable to walk properly and being assisted by people; accompanied by a group of mourners. 

Father rushed outside. 

“What’s happening?” I asked Father. “Is mummy injured? Did she have an accident”

Father did not respond. He dropped down on the pavement and for the first time in my fifteen years on earth I saw tears in Father’s eyes.