Obianuju

Before the war, before the blood and the screaming nights, there was Adaugo. My sister. My first best friend. My mirror.

I remember that afternoon like it was painted onto my memory with fire. The way the light slid through the shutters, warm and golden, like honey pooling onto the cracked floor tiles. The radio murmured a highlife tune in the background, barely loud enough to catch the lyrics. We were both on the rug in the parlor, cross-legged, shoulders touching. Adaugo peeled groundnuts into a blue enamel bowl, humming an old lullaby Mama used to sing when we were little.

Mama was in the kitchen, the soft clatter of her spoons and pots weaving into the music. It was the kind of afternoon that felt like it would last forever.

Then Papa came home.

The door slammed, shaking the picture frame on the wall. His footsteps were clipped, angry, each step like a slap against the tiles. He didn't greet Mama. He didn’t call out to us softly, like he used to when we were much younger. His voice cut through the parlor like a blade.

"Adaugo!"

We both froze.

She stood slowly, her fingers still slick from the groundnuts. I followed her instinctively, though his tone wasn’t meant for me.

Papa's eyes found hers and held them like a choke. "You are to marry," he said without preamble. "Ojukwu's nephew."

The words hung there, strange and impossible. The radio crackled as if even it had been silenced.

Adaugo blinked. "Papa... I don't know him."

Papa dropped his briefcase onto the floor with a thud. "He is a good match. This family needs strong ties. Your marriage will strengthen our position. You will leave for Enugu next month."

Her lips parted. A breath, barely audible. "Please... no."

He moved. So fast. A blur of motion.

The sound of the slap echoed around the parlor, louder than the radio, louder than Mama's distant stirring in the kitchen. Adaugo stumbled back, her hand flying to her cheek, red blooming across her skin.

"You will do as I say!" Papa roared. His voice filled every corner of the house. "You speak when spoken to! You are not a child! You will not disgrace me!"

I stood there, fists clenched, teeth locked together so hard my jaw ached. But I said nothing. Did nothing. My body shook with the need to defend her, but fear choked me.

He turned and marched into his room, slamming the door behind him. Mama never came out.

Adaugo stood there for a long time, then slowly sank to the floor. I knelt beside her, pulling her into my arms. Her fingers trembled in mine. Her tears bled into my wrapper, hot and silent.

That night, after Papa had gone to bed and the lamps were out, we sat under the mosquito net in our room. The moonlight spilled through the window, casting pale shadows on our faces.

"Let's go," I whispered.

She blinked. "What?"

"Let's leave. He can’t control us if we’re gone."

Adaugo stared at me, her swollen cheek catching the light. "Where would we go?"

"Zaria."

Her eyebrows lifted. "That’s far."

"Exactly. He won’t follow. There’s a university there. We can finish our studies. We can stay in the dormitory."

Silence.

Then, a breathy laugh escaped her. Not joyful. More a mix of disbelief and desperation. "You think it’s that easy?"

"No," I said. "But it’s possible. Mama gave us money last Christmas. We still have some saved. We can use it for tuition. And we can start a small business there to keep ourselves afloat. Sell puff-puff, akara, or zobo. People always need something to eat."

She looked down at her hands. "I can’t stay in this house. I can’t sit in that parlor and pretend like I’m happy. Not with him planning my life."

"Then let’s leave. Two weeks. Enough time to gather our things, say goodbye to Mama in secret. We leave before dawn."

She nodded, slowly.

We disappeared like whispers.

Zaria was red dust and dry wind. Wide roads and market stalls bustling with noise. We enrolled at the university and stayed in the female dormitory, sharing a narrow room with two other girls. For a while, we laughed again. Adaugo studied education. I majored in literature. We spent our days in lecture halls and our evenings preparing snacks to sell on campus. Adaugo would make akara, and I would sell zobo in old water bottles. Students liked us. They called us the Igbo sisters with the best snacks.

We were poor, but we were free. And proud. Every kobo we spent was from our own hands. We were building a life.

We wrote letters to Mama in secret, careful with our words. She replied once, in code, blessing our decision without saying it outright.

Adaugo would come home late, hair smelling of chalk and heat, always tired but smiling. She had that light again. The same one she'd lost the day Papa slapped her. Sometimes I’d catch her humming again while cooking yam porridge over a borrowed stove.

Then the massacre came.

It started like a rumour. Then a scream. Then fire.

We ran but didn't get far. They killed her and almost killed me too.
I screamed. But it was drowned out by more gunfire.

I had to leave her. I don’t know how I did it. I remember running.

---

Now, years later, I still dream of her. Her voice, her laughter. The way she used to hum. I see her lying on that road. The blood. The silence.

During the day, I wear her memory like a scarf just— close to my skin, tight around my throat.

People see me and say I’m strong. They think I survived.

They don’t know I died in Zaria too.

Some mornings, I wake up and forget for half a second that she’s gone. I reach across the mat, expecting to find her there, curled up, hair covering her face. But it’s just me. Always just me.

Sometimes I wonder: if we had stayed, would she still be alive?

Would she be married to a man she didn't love, but safe? Would she have children by now?

I carry that question like a wound. It festers.

The guilt is not loud. It whispers.

It whispers when I laugh too hard. When I eat well. When I find joy in a stranger's kindness.

It tells me I don’t deserve it.

Because I convinced her to go. I promised her freedom.

And Zaria swallowed her whole.