“No.”
“Did he turn out to have another wife in another city? Because men do love sequels.”
Despite yourself, you laugh.
Then you tell her everything.
Not gracefully. Not in order. You tell it in broken pieces, like unpacking shattered dishes from a box. The hidden sight. The old article. The name. The photograph. The recognition. The fear. The way his confession opened every old wound and poured uncertainty into it.
Your mother listens without interrupting, hands folded over one knee.
When you finish, she sighs through her nose. “So. He is a fool.”
“That’s all?”
“That is not all. But it is the foundation.”
You stare at her.
She shrugs. “A wicked man would use your scars to control you. A shallow man would run from them. A fool falls in love and then lies because he is terrified of losing what he loves. Still wrong. Still damaging. But not the same thing.”
“You’re defending him.”
“I am categorizing him. Accurate diagnosis matters.”
You groan and press your palms to your eyes.
She reaches over and nudges your knee. “Do you still love him?”
The question is indecent in its simplicity.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Then your problem is not love. Your problem is trust. Love without trust is like soup without water. All seasoning, no substance.”
You let out a wet laugh. “Why is all your wisdom based on food?”
“Because hunger gets people’s attention.”
For three days, Obinna does not come by. He does not flood your phone with apologies. He sends one message each morning: I’m here. No pressure. No defense. Just truth when you want it.
You do not reply.
On the fourth day, Chiamaka visits.
You know her only a little, but she had stood beside Obinna at the wedding, elegant in sage green, sharp-tongued and protective the way certain cousins are. She brings puff-puff, two oranges, and the energy of a woman who has no respect for emotional walls. Your mother lets her in after making her state her purpose like a border official.
Chiamaka sits across from you and folds her legs beneath her.
“I’m not here to convince you to forgive him,” she says. “I’m here because there’s something you should know, and if he tells you himself, it’ll sound strategic.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s not promising.”
“It isn’t. But it is honest.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a thin brown envelope, softened at the edges with age. Your stomach turns before she even opens it.
“This belonged to Chika,” she says. “My sister.”
The dead journalist.
You sit straighter.
“Obinna kept her notes after she died. Last month, while he was recovering from surgery, he asked me to help organize some papers in case his vision improved enough to read later. I found this tucked in a file.”
She slides a folded photocopy toward you.
It is a newspaper proof. Unpublished. You can tell by the editing marks and layout notes. The headline is in black block letters:
Leave a Comment