My son died two years ago. Last night, at 3:07 a.m., he called me and whispered: “Mama… let me in. I’m cold.”

Nneka did not sleep that night.

She sat upright in her bed until dawn, the phone resting in her lap like a loaded weapon. Every few minutes, she would check the screen, half-hoping, half-dreading it would light up again.

Alive.

The word echoed in her skull like a drumbeat.

By morning, the house felt different. Not haunted—worse. Expectant.

Adanna avoided her.

At breakfast, she barely touched her food, her hands trembling as she scrolled through her phone.

—“You didn’t sleep,” Nneka said quietly.

—“Neither did you,” Adanna replied, not looking up.

Silence stretched between them like a crack in glass.

Nneka leaned forward.

—“If he is alive…”

Adanna slammed her spoon down.

—“He is not.”

Too fast. Too sharp.

Nneka studied her daughter-in-law’s face. There it was again—that flicker. Not grief.

Fear.

At exactly 8:15 a.m., Nneka left the house.

She wore a plain wrapper and blouse, nothing that would draw attention. Her heart pounded as the driver dropped her near Surulere. She insisted on walking the last stretch alone.

The streets were alive—hawkers shouting, buses honking—but everything sounded distant, like she was underwater.

The sign appeared ahead:

OJIJI CAFÉ

A narrow building tucked between a pharmacy and a tailoring shop. Its windows were tinted dark.

Nneka stopped.

Her hands shook.

—“If this is madness,” she whispered to herself, “let it end today.”

She stepped inside.

The café was dim and cool. Only a few people sat scattered at  honte  tables, heads down, minds their own.

A waiter approached.

—“Good morning, madam. Table for one?”

Nneka opened her mouth—

—“She’s with me.”

The voice came from the corner.

Nneka froze.

Slowly, she turned.

A man sat in the shadows, a cap pulled low over his face.