Previously

Time seemed to move differently here. Days melted into nights, nights into days, each indistinguishable from the last. Perhaps it was the quiet—something I hadn’t experienced in years. True, the peace wasn’t perfect. My room, a sparse space on the far end of the psych ward’s east wing, bordered the mechanical room. The machines inside rattled, banged, and gurgled at predictable intervals—every half-hour for thirteen minutes, by my count. Their rhythm became my constant companion. At night, their noise acted as a lullaby, an ironic twist given the chaos I’d endured before. Here, the predictability of sound was almost soothing.

For the past three days, I’d followed the same strict routine: escorted by a chaperone—a short, wiry black man with patchy bald spots who always seemed to grumble about something—to meals, medication, and brief walks within the confines of the ward. His scrubs hung on him like a secondhand afterthought. The nametag read “Terrance,” though he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself. Our first interaction had been memorable enough.

“So, they just putting everybody in here now?” he muttered when I told him I was a lawyer. The comment didn’t bother me; I knew he was used to dealing with volatile patients. My calm demeanor probably threw him off.

Matt was the only person I talked to. He called before I was committed here, checked in throughout the case, and even now, promised that this wasn’t the end. “We’ll beat this,” he said on our last call. “I’m working every angle.”

Matt’s determination was galvanizing. He’d tapped into his network, contacted top defense attorneys, and even enlisted a private investigator, a cousin of his, to track down our wannabe 90s rapper and his girlfriend. Yet, despite his loyalty, a nagging unease crept into my chest.

It had started during our last call. Matt’s tone had shifted, his usual camaraderie replaced with something else.

“Did you cheat on her?” he asked all of a sudden.

“What?” I was caught off guard.

“Destiny,” he said, his breaths quickening. “I’m asking, brother to brother. Did you cheat on Destiny?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Matt, you know me. Do I look like the type to sneak around? Especially on Destiny? I would rather give up both arms. You already know how much I love that girl.”

“I know,” he said with a sigh. Then, after a pause, he dropped another bombshell: Destiny and Angie had reconciled. Their rekindled friendship left Matt in a precarious position, especially since Angie no longer wanted him speaking to me.

The revelation stung. This was Destiny’s doing: they felt calculated like an attempt to sever my last connection to our friends or to the people who mattered most. I wanted to tell Matt the truth about her PTSD, to explain how she was not well and was seeing a therapist. But I held my tongue. I wouldn’t stoop to the same level, no matter what she did to me.

I still loved Destiny—deeply. Despite everything, she remained at the center of everything in my life. After this ordeal, I was determined to win it all back: her love, her trust, her parents including Mr. Johnson’s approval. It might sound delusional, but I believed it was possible. I clung to that possibility, silently, unwilling to share it with Matt, or anyone for that matter.

As our conversation wound down, I heard a door creak open on Matt’s end. “That’s Angie,” he said abruptly. “Call me when you can. I’ll keep working on my end.” The line went dead.

Now, lying on my bed, I stared at the orange streaks of the setting sun through the narrow window. Tomorrow, I’d been granted permission to make an hour-long call due to my good behavior. The first call would be to my younger brother. He deserved to know what had happened, though I’d downplay it. I’d tell him the charges were baseless, the psych ward a temporary setback. No need to alarm our mother or the rest of the family, Pastor Samuel and friends. He’d simply have to explain that I’d be tied up for a while—calls would rarely be answered, let alone returned. And as for the paperwork for his college, he’d need to adjust his expectations for now. A delay was unavoidable.

The second call would be to Matt. I planned to give him power of attorney, authorizing him to manage my financial affairs and ensure my family’s monthly allowance continued. It was the least I could do from here.

Afterward, it would be back to work. In this quiet, sterile room, I resolved to construct an ironclad defense. No internet access? No pen or paper? It didn’t matter. I’d outline every detail in my head, examining the prosecutor’s arguments from every angle and crafting counterpoints as fortified as castle walls. By the time I met with the defense attorney, I’d hand them a strategy so precise it could be a blueprint for my instant exoneration. This was what I lived for—case prep, analysis, strategic planning, tearing apart an opponent’s arguments. Criminal law wasn’t a specialty, but preparation? That was universal in all fields.

As I closed my eyes, the mechanical room next door hummed to life with its signature rattle and gurgle. The sound was steady, predictable. I let it lull me to sleep, the fleeting comfort of order in a world that felt increasingly tumultuous.

Tomorrow was another day. Another day to fight:

as long as I was breathing.

Time froze as the caws dragged me out of a restless slumber, my eyes snapping open to the inky darkness of the psych ward. My pulse raced, and the rhythmic, almost deliberate cawing from outside my window filled the silence like a twisted serenade. Rubbing my eyes, I muttered under my breath, “Nincompoops,” and dragged myself out of bed.

The floor was cold under my feet as I trudged toward the window. The sound was sharp, persistent—until it wasn’t. The moment I reached the glass, the caws ceased, swallowed by an unnatural stillness that pressed against my ears like a physical weight. A sudden and deafening silence.

“Stupid birds,” I grumbled, turning back toward my bed. But the moment I slid beneath the covers, a shrill, mechanical grinding pierced the air above me. It was unmistakable: the furious scrape of a vacuum being dragged across the floor. My body tensed as I stared at the ceiling. My room was on the top floor—there was no floor above me.

“It’s just the meds,” I said. But then came the stomping—loud, deliberate, heavy boots pounding just overhead. A thought flickered in my mind like a dying bulb: Is there an attic?

But it was a voice that answered: a voice that was not my own. It was a hive of whispers, overlapping and discordant, each word jagged and inhuman: “You are a smart boy than that.”

The voice slithered through my mind like a parasite. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. A deep, hacking laugh erupted inside my head—a cacophony of grating, wet coughs, each more grotesque than the last. My skin crawled. Every hair on my body stood on end like pointed needles. Hair that I never knew existed, the dormant follicles deep inside my bald scalp.

Above, the scraping and stomping continued, joined by a sound I knew too well: “Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”

My heart pounded as the guttural laughter morphed into vile mockery. My fists clenched, my nails biting into my palms. “This isn’t real,” I mumbled, slapping myself. The sting did nothing to pull me from this waking nightmare.

Another voice joined the others above. “If I’d known they were causing such a ruckus, I never would’ve allowed it.”

“N-n-no,” I said, barely able to get the words out. “No-not possible.”

The hive spoke again, mocking and gleeful: “Not so smart boy, after all. Let us help.”

A sharp pain lanced through my skull as memories began furiously flipping through my mind like reels of a cursed View-Master. The images blurred together, jarring and chaotic: Destiny’s note, Ms. Walton’s kind face, my fist colliding with the wannabe rapper, the old building of our first apartment—then something new, something foreign.

A blonde girl appeared in my mind’s eye, her green-highlighted hair tangled and filthy. Arcane symbols tattooed her arms, and piercings marred her face. She sat cross-legged on a grimy apartment floor, chanting in a language that grated against my ears. The scene twisted and shifted. Her chanting grew louder, more frenzied. Her eyes rolled back as she began clawing at the walls, leaving bloody smears mixed with feces. The police came, battering down the door. Her wild, guttural screams echoed as they dragged her away.

“Warmer, boy?” the hive said, its laughter rolling. “But not enough. Let us show you.”

More images forced their way into my mind. The renovated apartment. Destiny and I, wide-eyed and naive, admiring its shiny facade of white paint covering all that blood, feces and inexplicable markings. The agent’s forced smile. The lease signing.

My stomach twisted as the pieces fell into place. That apartment wasn’t just haunted—it was cursed, a portal for something ancient and malevolent unleashed by that foolish girl. My life, full of promise, was too hard for them to pass up, like a fat pig walking into a den of ravenous hyenas.

They’d followed us, poisoned everything, torn the love of my life from me, turned the world against me—and still, it wasn’t enough.

“What do you want from me?” I asked helplessly, though the answer was already taking shape in my mind before the words even left my lips. My gaze flickered toward the bedroom window, the locked door, the fragile safety of my bed covers. Each offered grim possibilities. The staff didn’t consider me a danger to myself, which meant little oversight—Terrence rarely checked on me. One option would be quick and brutal; another, slow and agonizing. And if I wanted to avoid pain altogether? A careless mental slip—their sinster doing—by the nurse administering my medication could hand me a bottle of forever escape.

“You don’t have to suffer, boy,” the hive voice purred, its tone sickly sweet, almost enticing. “Why stay and fight? Come to us. Be like the girl. You’re a smart boy. You’re always a smart boy.”

An image flooded my mind, sharp and unbidden. A little boy hunched over a book inside a rusted zinc shack, the faint flicker of a kerosene lantern barely keeping the oppressive darkness at bay. I knew that boy—I was that boy.

His stomach growled, his arms raw and ashy from the dry, biting air of the Harmattan. He gnawed on the end of a pencil, his teeth scraping the worn rubber, a poor substitute for the fat, glistening drumstick he’d seen earlier. A man in a navy blue three-piece suit had eaten it, seated in the back of a chauffeured car—an image of effortless ease that had burned itself into the boy’s mind.

The hive’s voice broke through, seeping into my thoughts like oil in water. “We not wait for you, two-leg,” it hissed, irritated.

“Shut the fuck up!” came a guttural scream from below, snapping the memory apart. Furious blows rattled the floor. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Another voice joined in, this one from the mechanical room next door. “Oh, so we’re allowed to fuck now, huh?” Walls shuddered under the force of pounding fists.

Of course, I wasn’t alone here. My fellow patients were being twisted, manipulated by the same force. This ward, far from being a sanctuary, was a playground for the malevolence that had followed me. Here, surrounded by fractured minds, I was the perfect prey.

Tears spilled down my cheeks, salty stings brushing the corners of my lips. Even if I escaped, I knew they would follow. Timbuktu, Antarctica—it didn’t matter. There would be no peace.

I thought of Destiny. Her smile, her laugh, her warmth. But now I knew, I would never see her again—and the fact was she hated me. That knowledge clawed at my chest.

“Shut the fuck up! I swear, I’ll kill you!” the voice below screamed again, punctuated by another crash.

This was what it felt like to lose everything.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” the hive voice crooned. “Such a smart boy, you are. You know the way out.”

I closed my eyes tight against the tears, but the memory returned. I was back in that rusted zinc shack. The boy hunched over the book, his gangly frame swallowed by a too-small school uniform. The kerosene’s stifling fumes burned his watery eyes and tickled his nose, but he kept reading.

The boy paused, and for the first time, looked directly at me. A wide grin stretched across his face. I felt that grin pulling at my own lips, sharp and defiant. How could I have forgotten this? That grin wasn’t just a smile—it was a spark. It was an idea, audacious and searing, born in that soul-sucking slum.

I was going to be like that man in the chauffeured car—wear a suit like his, walk through life with the same ease. Eat three full meals a day. Take care of my mother and siblings. Lift them out of that cramped, stifling poverty into a real home—spacious, fully furnished, with electricity humming through every room. And I did it. Every last bit of it.

The flowing tears felt ticklish on my cheeks. My chest heaved, but not from despair—from a feeling deeper, unyielding. I unclenched my fists. The image of my past—the smiling boy in that shack—flared like a bonfire in my mind.

“Fuck you!” I shouted, the words tearing from me, raw and primal.

The emotion surged, more potent than all the happiest moments of my life combined. The hive’s laughter clawed at my ears, but it didn’t matter. The feeling inside me burned brighter, fiercer, consuming their noise like dry kindling. It drowned out the pounding walls, the stomping and moaning above, the chaos that had once dominated.

“You think this is funny?” the patient below screamed in fury. “I’ll fuck you up!”

The blows raged harder, but they were distant now. These demons, this ward, did not know who they were dealing with. I wasn’t just anyone. A West African—extremely resilient.

Adaptable to any environment!

“My left breast keeps itching.”

“Mama, stop your worrying. He is fine.”

“My Emmie always call me back. And he never miss calling me every month. Were you able to reach him?”

“I tried Messenger and WhatsApp but he did not pick up…He should have called by now to give me the code to pick up the money.”

“You see! This is not like Emmie. Something is wr—”

“Mama, Mama, please calm down. I already spoke with the landlord. We’ve never been late before, so he understands. Stop worrying. Remember, the doctor said stress isn’t good for your health.”

“I can feel it, Moses. A mother knows. Something—”

“Mama, remember when he was in college. We called him many times and texted him. He did not pick up. And what happened? He was on break, bought a ticket and showed up right at our door with gifts. Surprising you, the twins, all of us. Especially you. You almost fainted.”

“That was my best Christmas. He looked so grown up.”

“And now, he is more grown up, a man with a wife and maybe a child on the way. Don’t forget now, they’re coming next month. You are going to see your son and daughter-in-law. Knowing Emmie, he might surprise us and come sooner.”

“Yeah…you right, my son…You right.”

“So, stop hurting your head. Don’t worry.”

The End

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-Josephine Dean

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Previously

I pounded my fist on the door, rapid thuds like drumbeats of my frustration.

“Hold the fuck on!” a male voice shouted from inside. Moments later, the door swung open.

“Where the fuck is the pizza?” the man said, glaring up at me.

For a moment, I said nothing, just sizing him up. He was younger, a little older than my brother, maybe early twenties. A word immediately popped into my head as I looked at him: pipsqueak. I’d learned it back when I was fresh off the boat and picking up American lingo by first watching Looney Tunes before moving onto more serious TV shows and movies.

The guy was a walking cliché of someone trying to emulate a 90s rapper. A bucket hat slumped over his forehead, almost obscuring his eyes. He wore baggy jeans that looked like they might slide right off, and a backward Chicago Bulls’ Michael Jordan 23 jersey that hung on his skinny frame like a coat on a wire hanger. “Skin and bones,” I thought.

The contrast between him and me was stark, to say the least. Matt always joked that I resembled a cross between Lawrence Taylor and a young George Foreman. My size often scared people before they got to know me—something I hated but occasionally found useful, especially in the courtroom or, like now, when intimidation could end a conflict before it began.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, my voice low and menacing.

The guy tilted his head back slowly, his face shifting from irritation to unease. His eyes widened as they took me in—my height, my broad shoulders, my arms crossed over my chest, emphasizing biceps that dwarfed his entire frame. He looked like a chihuahua trying to square up with a mastiff.

“I’m going to need you to keep it down,” I said, holding his gaze. “My wife and I cannot—”

“T-talk t-talk to the old lady,” he said, his voice shaky.

I narrowed my eyes. “My man, are you being serious with me?” I leaned in slightly, my arms still crossed. “Do you really want to start something with me tonight?”

The man froze, his lips trembling. He looked ready to bolt.

“Now,” I continued, my tone firm. “I already talked to Ms. Walton. Honestly, I don’t care at this point. I’m going to need you and your lady to keep it down. Or, we can start?”

“Nah,” he muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?” I said, arching an eyebrow.

“I said ‘nah, man,’” he said, a little louder this time. “We straight. We’ll keep it down.”

“Thank YOU.”

I turned to leave, but just as I was about to take a step, I heard it:

“Have a good night—and your lady, too.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, the words hitting me like a slap to the face. Turning back, I caught the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. That smirk told me everything. That nincompoop knew exactly what he was doing. He knew all the hell he was causing, and that Destiny was gone. To him, this was all a big joke. A joke that he would continue as soon as I entered my apartment.

My fists clenched, my vision tunneling and a red haze filling my mind. The next thing I knew, the guy was lying on the floor, writhing and groaning in pain.

“Babe! Are you okay?” a frantic voice called from inside.

I looked down at my hands, trembling with adrenaline. What had I done?

Without thinking, I turned and hurried back to my apartment, slamming the door behind me. My heart pounded as I braced myself for what I knew would come next.

I expected the police to knock on my door any minute. Every passing second felt like an eternity. In my mind, I had already rehearsed the sequence: cuffs around my wrists, Miranda rights recited, a long night in a holding cell. Assault? Likely. But murder?

Facing the officers, I was calm—until they charged me. First-degree murder. Of all people, for Ms. Walton? My voice cracked under the weight of disbelief.

“Tha-That’s insane!” I said, stammering as my voice rose. “I didn’t kill her! I didn’t kill anyone!”

But they weren’t listening. Instead, they showed me the tape. It wasn’t the entire story—just a single, damning frame. The hallway camera caught me pounding on the door to Ms. Walton’s apartment, my fist flying forward. It didn’t capture the smirking punk who’d taunted me, or the ruckus that had led me there. Just me. A hulking figure, furious, throwing a punch.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” I said, my words tripping over each other as the sweat dripped down my face. “It’s not what it looks like.” I was fumbling, desperate. Get it together, Emmanuel. You knew how to act under pressure, thousands of times.

I forced myself to take a deep breath and tell them everything: the noise, the wannabe 90s rapper and his girlfriend, Ms. Walton’s admission that she let them stay there temporarily. I explained how I’d confronted the man above, how he’d baited me, and how I’d left him groaning but alive.

“You can see for yourself,” I said, groveling. “Look at all the tapes. Just look. You’ll see him and his girlfriend living there. Ms. Walton didn’t even stay in the apartment. She wasn’t there.”

I sat in that cold interrogation room for hours, waiting for them to verify my story. I was certain the evidence would back me up.

When the detectives returned, their grim expressions told me everything.

“She lives alone,” one of them said. Ms. Walton had no guests, no family nearby. Though she was an extrovert out and about in the community, helping others. At home, she was a recluse. Nobody was ever seen visiting or entering her apartment, not on camera, not by the neighbors. Just her. And me on that night.

The room spun as the reality of their words hit me like a freight train. The case they were building around me was airtight: the towering African man, furious, pounding on an old woman’s door, and punching her to death. No witnesses. Nor evidence to refute otherwise.

My mugshot hit the news in the coming days. My face, beside hers—the kind, smiling sweet Ms. Walton handing out meals at a soup kitchen. The headlines were merciless: “Large Man Pummels Elderly Community Hero.” Variations of “crushes,” “clobbers,” and “bashes” filled every outlet, each word a hammer pounding the nails into my coffin.

Then came the video. A grainy, clipped version of the footage leaked online: my fist flying forward. That five-second loop played endlessly, shared and reshared until it became a symbol of my supposed violence.

And the comments—God, the comments. Anonymous vitriol poured in: racist slurs, calls for my execution. They didn’t see a man trying to fix his life, trying to save his marriage. They saw a monster.

Even Carrie, that vile red-haired leasing agent, twisted the knife.

“He came to my office every week to complain for no reason,” she said on TV, her eyes wide with faux fear. “I couldn’t sleep having to face him. I started carrying pepper spray just in case. He was obsessed with Ms. Walton.”

Her lies only added fuel to the fire. Forget the lease—I would have given anything to have never crossed paths with that woman.

By the time jury selection began, I knew I was doomed. The public wanted blood, and the prosecutor had built a fortress of a case. But then, a curveball: they questioned my competency to stand trial.

Me? Incompetent? The idea was absurd. I wasn’t crazy. I was a man who’d been pushed too far. But I knew what this was: a tactic to bury me further. Declaring me unfit would save them the trouble of a trial, of hearing my side.

I had no choice. I had to hold it together, even as the walls closed in. The truth was the only thing I had left, and I was ready to fight for it. But first, I had to get through this forensic interview, the prosecutor’s latest sideshow.

This noisy, chaotic sideshow.

To Be Continued (Finale)

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Previously

Matt and Angie’s arrival felt like an instant breath of fresh air. Destiny and I had to get out of that noisy apartment to show our best friends around. Moreover, it was the perfect excuse to escape the arguments, fights and the weight of our deteriorating marriage. Every weekend, sometimes during the week, we’d take them to our favorite haunts or explore new spots together. Those outings quickly became my favorite moments in this state.

Out with them, I could be my old self again—the jokester who loved to crack jokes. Watching Matt and Angie double over with laughter felt like old times, especially with Angie’s trademark boisterous laugh that could turn heads from miles away. She still had that habit of smacking my hands whenever she thought I was being “too much.” “You’re a fool, Em!” she’d say, laughing so hard she’d wipe tears from her eyes. Even Destiny joined in, laughing in a way I hadn’t heard in months. Her laughter was music to my ears, and for a while, it felt like we were all whole again.

But good things rarely last: the same story of my life in this hellish state.

One evening, Destiny uttered the words that marked the beginning of the end. “I don’t feel like going out.”

At first, I thought a little about it. Everyone had their off days. But when the excuses piled up—stress, exhaustion, or simply “not being in the mood”—I found myself repeatedly apologizing to Matt and Angie. “Sorry, man,” I’d say. “Destiny’s working on a big case and can’t step away… You don’t have to wait on us. Go enjoy yourselves. Have you checked out [insert name of hotspot] yet?”

Matt took it in stride, as always. He never pried, never took it personally. After all, he’d been the first to suggest that I take Destiny out to lift her spirits when this nightmare began at the old apartment. Matt, my brother in everything but blood, was the type of friend you could always count on. Angie, too, respected our space. Yet each time I made an excuse, it nibbled away at me. The gulf between Destiny and me widened, and no matter how much I wanted to bridge it, I just couldn’t.

At the time, I was certain Destiny’s sudden mood change was because of that night. That night at Matt and Angie’s apartment—a night I now wished I could have closed my big mouth.

Matt and Angie’s place was immaculate, part of another newly built luxury apartment building in the area. Unlike us, they seemed settled, practically thriving in their new environment. They’d figured out the transit system, discovered their favorite grocery stores, restaurants, hotspots as well as made their place a sanctuary home.

They lived on the first floor. And when they invited us over again, I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask.

“So, how are you finding your apartment? Everything to your liking?” I asked, leaning back on their pristine white bouclé sofa.

“Absolutely,” Matt said, handing Destiny and me drinks. “No complaints so far.”

“No trouble with neighbors or anything?” I said, nodding toward the ceiling.

Matt furrowed his brow. “Neighbors? What neighbors?”

I tilted my head. “The people above you?”

Matt exchanged a look with Angie and then shrugged. “Honestly, we don’t even know if anyone’s up there. Haven’t heard a thing. This place is so quiet, sometimes it feels like we’re the only ones here.”

Angie chimed in. “The building’s pretty new, and I think we’re among the first tenants. There are still a couple units vacant, waiting to be filled. We got so lucky with this place.”

“Lucky, indeed,” I muttered, swirling my drink.

My mouth should have stopped there. But my curiosity—or my frustration—got the better of me.

“And the town? The state?” I asked, too eagerly. “How does it compare to Georgetown? Too noisy to your liking, huh?”

Matt looked thoughtful, Angie nodding beside him. “Honestly? This place might be quieter than Georgetown. It’s definitely growing on us.”

“Thinking about staying for a while?” My voice cracked ever so slightly.

Matt shrugged. “Ask us in seven months when our lease is up.”

“You signed a nine-month lease?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

Matt grinned. “Yeah, we like flexibility. You know me—I always negotiate. Angie and I didn’t want to be tied down in case the place didn’t live up to our expectations.”

I raised my glass in acknowledgment, but inwardly, I felt the sting. That flexibility. That freedom: the antithesis of the ironclad lease binding Destiny and me to Oakmont and this damn state.

Then Angie added, with an amused chuckle, “We like flexibility, huh?”

I didn’t say a word, sipping my drink. But, there was another response that made my skin crawl. A response that patiently waited for me to tie the noose around my neck tight before acting to pull the lever.

“Hmm.”

Matt and Angie were so lucky—so oblivious, ridiculously lucky. They didn’t even realize it. Free from the relentless noise that defined my every waking moment, they lived in a blissful bubble of silence and peace. And if, by some cruel twist of fate, the noise eventually crept into their lives, they’d still have an out. They weren’t tied down like Destiny and me. With their short lease, they could pack up and leave at the first sign of trouble with minor expense, no strings attached.

That freedom gave them the ability to see the best in this state, to gloss over the flaws and enjoy their time here.

Meanwhile, Destiny and I were unraveling. After that night at our best friends’ apartment, the fragile threads of our marriage began to snap. Destiny was on edge, itching for an argument at every turn.

She found reasons everywhere—small, mundane things blown out of proportion. I’d leave my shoes too close to the door; it was suddenly proof of my “lack of care for the house.” I’d forgotten to pick up her favorite brand of yogurt; it became a lecture about how I “never listen.” Each fight spiraled back to the same refrain: “You’re the one who put us in this two-years shit, Emmanuel. You fucking did this.”

Her words cut deep, forcing me to relive the moment I’d signed that lease with Carrie. Over and over, I imagined going back in time, shaking some sense into myself, walking away before the pen hit the paper. But regrets didn’t change reality.

Despite the turmoil, I kept my routine—flowers every Friday, her favorite meals cooked with surprise, movie nights I hoped would distract her. It was all I could do to make up for my colossal mistake. But the gestures barely made a dent. We were past the point of saving. I knew it, even if I couldn’t admit it outright. The marriage was over; it was only a matter of time before the final collapse.

That day came sooner than I expected.

It was a beautiful Saturday—warm, the kind of day that begged you to be outside. Just past noon, I’d decided to clear my head after another explosive argument with Destiny. The grocery store was my excuse to escape, and I welcomed the fresh air as I walked in jogger shorts, a t-shirt, and my most comfortable running shoes.

The town seemed idyllic that sunny day. Birds chirped, dogs alongside their owners played in the park, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of early spring. For a moment, I felt the tension ease as I made my way to the store.

Inside, I started picking up items, distractedly scanning the shelves, when I heard a familiar voice.

“Em!”

Before I could react, Angie wrapped me in a tight, enthusiastic hug. Her energy was infectious, and for the first time that day, I felt myself relax.

“Angie, hey,” I said, my voice quieter than hers.

Her smile faded slightly as she studied me. “How are you? You okay?”

I let out a sigh. “I’m fine, Angie. Just…busy.”

Her brow furrowed. “Busy, huh? How about some coffee? There’s a place outside.”

I hesitated, but her concern was palpable. “Sure.”

We grabbed coffees and found a table under a shaded tree. Angie asked me how things were going, but I offered little—just that Destiny and I were under a lot of stress from work. She didn’t push, knowing me too well to expect more. I wasn’t the kind to share feelings freely.

Sensing the tension, Angie shifted the conversation, bringing up law school memories. It worked. Before long, we were both laughing, tears streaming down our faces as she slapped my hands the way she always did.

We talked, laughed and laughed. I completely lost track of the time and the turmoil waiting for me back home.

But someone kept track.

When I returned to the apartment, the silence was immediate and unsettling. “Destiny?” I called, setting down the keys and grocery bags. No answer.

The only sound was the bass-heavy thumping from DJ Terrible upstairs. I walked further inside and froze when I saw the notepad on the counter, a page torn out and scrawled in rough, angry handwriting.

“Emmanuel, I cannot live like this anymore. I refuse to be someone’s fucking sidepiece. My dad will come by to pick up the rest of my stuff. Hope you and that beige bitch enjoyed one another.”

I stared at the note, the world spinning around me. The end had come, and Destiny had made her exit from this state—without me.

The week after Destiny left was a blur. I could hardly remember a thing, even now, sitting in this stifling interrogation room with its constant hum of noise. That week marked the last days of my freedom, but the details remain frustratingly elusive.

What I remembered, vividly and painfully, was that noise. That damn noise. Without Destiny, the cacophony became unbearable. It was as if the entire state had conspired to remind me of how bad things truly were. Every sound grated on me—the rush of cars, the wails of ambulances and firetrucks, the clamor of commuters, and even the animals seemed far louder. That’s when I first noticed the tinnitus, a persistent ringing that joined the endless chorus of chaos.

But none of it compared to home. The moaning above my apartment became a nightly torment. Without Destiny beside me, every Ooooooo and Rrrrrrrr dug deeper into my sanity. It felt personal. I swore I could hear laughter laced into their sounds. Were they mocking me? Had they figured out that I was now utterly alone?

The cruelty of it wasn’t just in the noise itself, but in what it represented. Ever since we moved to Oakmont, intimacy with Destiny had become a distant memory. I couldn’t even recall the last time we kissed. And now, the sounds above reminded me of what I’d lost.

Still, I kept going. I went to work every day, though I couldn’t tell you what I did or accomplished. The week passed in a cloudy haze, interrupted only by Matt’s voicemail.

“Hey, brother,” he began. I played the first half before cutting it off. Something about Destiny cussing out Angie and telling her never to call again. Angie, confused and hurt, had cried to Matt.
I sent him a brief reply via text:
“Hey brother, please accept my sincere apology. Destiny is under a lot of stress. Please tell Angie not to take it personally. I will tell you everything soon.”

Matt didn’t press for details. “No worries, brother. I’ll talk to Angie. Let me know if you all need anything.” That was Matt for you—always understanding, and never intrusive.

One might think that with my life crumbling, I’d cut my losses. Pack up, leave this cursed state, and chase after my wife. But that wasn’t me. I wasn’t the one to run, even when it seemed like the smarter choice.

Deep down, I believed I could turn it all around. I told myself that with time, Destiny and I could rebuild. We’d go out with Matt and Angie, ignore the noise, and find joy again. Now, looking back, I see how utterly stupid that belief or hope was.

My misguided confidence swelled after speaking with my mother that Sunday. As usual, our conversation began with the essentials: Had she received the money I sent? Were my siblings keeping up with their studies? Most importantly, how was my younger brother progressing in his final year of high school? I was already preparing the paperwork to send for him to attend college.

Then, inevitably, she asked the dreaded question:
“Where’s my daughter? I want to talk to her.”

I felt my stomach knot. Destiny hadn’t spoken to my mother in months. “She’s busy with work,” I said. “Next time, I promise.”

“Emmanuel,” she said, her voice heavy with concern. “Is everything okay? You keep saying the same thing many times.”

The last thing I wanted was for my mother to glimpse the half-devil Destiny had become—or worse, to experience her wrath firsthand. The sweet daughter-in-law image had to remain intact. I wouldn’t let my mother suffer the same fate as Angie.

“Emmanuel?”

“Yes, Mama, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Do you want me to connect you two with Pastor Samuel?”

Her suggestion made my heart race. She knew something was wrong, but not to the full extent. That was my saving grace.

“Destiny’s visiting her parents,” I said, the words blurting out. “She’s been missing them and wanted to spend some time with them.”

“Oh.”

My mouth ran ahead of me, like a runaway bull. “In fact, she and I talked, and she wants to visit you soon. We’ll both come to see you.”

“You are both coming?” Excitement crept into her tone.

“Yes, yes Mama,” I said. And then I made my second monumental mistake, right after signing that two-year lease. I gave her a timeline.

The shouts of joy and praises to Jesus on the other end of the line usually brought me comfort. But this time, the weight of my promise pressed heavily on my chest. Two months. I’d given myself two months to fix everything.

As my mother sang her praises, I sat there in silence, already regretting my words. But there was no going back.

Honestly, I craved the challenge, even as I knew deep down it would be near impossible.

The following Monday, I woke up with a clarity I hadn’t felt in weeks. Despite the noise from the night before, I felt strangely energized, almost buoyant. I’d spent the entire night turning my mother’s words over in my mind, constructing a plan to fix everything, and fast. The pieces were falling into place, and I had hoped that everything was going to work out.

After breakfast, as I slipped into my work shoes, my phone buzzed. A text. “How are you holding up? You free to talk?” The sender: Mr. Johnson. Destiny’s father.

My heart quickened with a mix of relief and determination. Mr. Johnson was always a stern man, the kind who rarely offered compliments but whose approval I had worked hard to earn. A retired Lieutenant General during the Vietnam War, now a semi-retired maxillofacial surgeon, he was a man of precision, discipline, and order. I still remembered the first time I met him—his piercing eyes evaluating me as if I were a recruit under inspection. Yet, over time, he respected me for my grit, ambition, and, most importantly, my love for his daughter.

This text was a sign—my plan was already in motion. Mr. Johnson was the first piece of the puzzle. If anyone could help me mend things with Destiny, it was him. I replied immediately, suggesting we talk after work. He agreed to call me at 8 p.m.

The chilly morning air bit at my face as I made my way to the train station, but even that couldn’t dampen my spirits. As I rounded a corner, I spotted a woman power walking toward me—a tall, wiry figure with silver hair tied neatly in a bun. She wore a bright pink tracksuit and moved with a vigor that belied her age. It was her: Ms. Walton. The famous Ms. Walton, my upstairs neighbor.

“Good morning!” she called, her voice cheerful as she waved.

This was my chance. I stopped and introduced myself, explaining that my wife and I lived directly below her. Her expression shifted when I mentioned the noise. I launched into a description of the nightly torture—moaning, purring, and the incessant DJing—and her face turned pale.

“Oh, gosh,” she said, bringing a hand to her mouth. “I had no idea. I’m hardly ever in my apartment, you see. I’ve been letting some friends of the family stay there temporarily. They needed a place to get on their feet.” She looked genuinely distraught. “If I’d known they were causing such a ruckus, I never would’ve allowed it.”

I thanked her, but my gratitude felt hollow. As I walked away, I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt gnawing at me. Words were cheap, and I’d been disappointed too many times to believe that this encounter would magically solve everything.

On the train ride into the city, I tried to bury my skepticism with some optimism, daydreams mainly. Destiny would come back to a quiet home. We’d rediscover our joy—cooking together, laughing, and finally inviting Matt and Angie over. The spark would reignite, and we’d rebuild our marriage with a focus to the future.

Still, I couldn’t fully commit to those dreams. Not yet. Not until Ms. Walton proved her promises weren’t just more empty words like the others before her.

That evening, I returned home around 7, greeted by an unfamiliar silence. No beats. No swearing. Not even a whisper from above. I couldn’t help smiling as I loosened my tie and set about making dinner: mini burgers and fries. Finally, I was going to have a quiet meal in my own home.

Just as I was about to take my first bite, my phone rang. I froze. Mr. Johnson. I’d nearly forgotten our call. I wiped my hands and answered, my voice a little shaky. “Hello?”

“Can you talk?” his gruff voice came through the line.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hurrying over to the living room.

What followed was unexpected. Mr. Johnson apologized—something I never thought I’d hear. He told me he and Mrs. Johnson had taken Destiny to therapy. “It’s all in her head, man,” he said with a heavy sigh. “The stuff she thinks you did… God, if it were true, I’d have come over there and blown your head off myself.”

“Mr. Johnson, I didn’t—”

“I know, son. I know. I’m on your side. But she’s been having these nightmares, these intense dreams. She thinks you cheated on her with multiple women—with Angie, of all people.”

“Angie? What? Mr. Johnson, I would never—”

“I know, Emmanuel. I know. The truth is, when I first laid eyes on her, I knew right away something was wrong. I recognized that look before. It was the same look on some of my units in Nam. And the doc confirmed it. Insomnia and Borderline PTSD.”

The words hit me like a truck. I gripped the phone, my mind racing. Had Destiny told her parents about the noise? Did they know it was all my fault, my incompetence that got us in this hellhole? If they did, Mr. Johnson wasn’t saying, or pointing any fingers.

“She’s staying with us now,” he said. “But she needs time. The therapist said you might feel like a threat to her…right now.”

“A threat?” My voice cracked. “I’m her husband.”

“I get it, son. I really do. But this isn’t about logic. It’s about her healing…Just give it time.”

“How much time?” I asked, desperation creeping in.

“I honestly don’t know, son. The therapist didn’t specify. From my experience, these things take a little bit of time. Weeks. Months…But, I’ll be here for her…and I’ll remind her of how much you love her. I am on your side, remember?”

His words intended to comfort me, but instead, ripped the soul from my body. I felt the apartment spinning. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Even worse, as he continued speaking, the silence above broke like glass.

“Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”

“Emmanuel, what’s that noise?” Mr. Johnson asked suddenly, his tone sharp.

I clenched my jaw. “I’ll call you back,” I said, hanging up abruptly. The blood rushed to my head as I stood up and stormed toward the door. I wasn’t thinking. All I knew was that this noise—the source of all my problems—had to end.

Tonight.

To Be Continued

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Previously

The move to Oakmont Ridge went smoothly. The movers worked efficiently, carefully placing each piece of furniture and box where we directed. By mid-afternoon, they were done and everything was in place.

Unpacking took us three days, with our neatly labeled boxes making the process straightforward. Bit by bit, we added personal touches—books arranged on shelves, framed photos on end tables, and clothes folded into the spacious walk-in closet. By the time we finished, the apartment felt like ours: modern and luxurious, yet filled with warmth and our personality.

Our first week at Oakmont Ridge felt like a breath of fresh air. We stayed in to truly enjoy our new home. The gourmet kitchen became my creative space, where I experimented with new recipes while Destiny set the mood with her carefully curated playlists. Our cooking sessions often turned into lively dance parties, filled with laughter and the clinking of utensils—a perfect blend of fun and comfort that carried through our evenings and weekends.

Workdays felt more rewarding, knowing what awaited us after. Post-work, we made full use of the building’s amenities. I tackled the weights in the fitness center, while Destiny found peace in the yoga studio, stretching away the day’s stress under its softly dimmed lights. Afterward, we’d meet in the rooftop clubroom, where a crackling fireplace and steaming mugs of hot cocoa made the perfect end to our days. Through the panoramic windows, we’d gaze at the starry night sky and faintly twinkling city lights, appreciating the serenity Oakmont Ridge offered—a sanctuary all our own.

It was the start of our third week at Oakmont Ridge—the third week of comfortably settling into our new life—when things began to fall apart.

Destiny and I were sound asleep, the kind of deep rest that only comes with peace of mind, when a peculiar sound pulled us from our slumber. At first, it was faint—soft, rhythmic moaning that seeped through the ceiling. We both stirred, rubbing our eyes, the haze of sleep giving way to full awareness.

“Ooooooooo! Ooooooo!”

“What is that?” I murmured, still groggy.

The answer came soon enough. Purring noises, low and suggestive, joined the moaning. And then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creaking of furniture above.

“Are they being serious right now?” I asked, exasperated.

Destiny rolled onto her side, stifling a laugh. “I think so.”

I sat up, ready to head to the kitchen, but Destiny reached out and stopped me. “Babe, don’t worry about it,” she said. “We were young once.”

Reluctantly, I lay back down, determined to ignore the noise. But it was impossible. The moaning and purring grew louder, accompanied by the rhythmic squeaks of a bedframe, each sound like a taunt against the silence of the night.

“Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”

Every groan and creak twisted my stomach into knots. I stared at the ceiling, futilely willing it all to stop. Sleep wasn’t even a consideration anymore.

By morning, the sounds had mercifully stopped. As we got ready for work and sat down for breakfast, the inevitable introduction came—not in person, but through the abrasive voices above.

“Fuck, yo!” a coarse, male voice bellowed.

“Stop fucking yelling at me!” a sharp, female voice snapped back.

“Where the fuck is my jersey?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

Destiny and I exchanged a glance, her raised brow mirroring my grimace.

“It’s probably nothing,” she said on the train ride to work, her voice calm and measured as she tried to soothe me. “Remember, we have Carrie. We can contact her directly if it becomes an issue.”

I sighed, my eyes fixed on the passing cityscape. “You’re right. I really hope I don’t have to.”

Oh, but I did have to. There was no ignoring those two dreadful nincompoops. And besides, we were paying a premium price—albeit within our budget—for luxury and comfort, so there was no way I was going to let it slide. I was at the leasing office door at precisely 8:30 in the morning, following another restless night of “Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”

Destiny’s quip from the night before played in my head as Carrie unlocked the door and waved me in: “It’s never that good.”

“They’re doing it on purpose,” I said, wasting no time as Carrie gestured towards a chair in front of her desk.

Carrie tilted her head, giving me a curious look as she sat down. “What’s going on?”

I explained the ordeal from the past two nights—the moaning and purring, the creaking, even the expletive arguments we overheard during breakfast. “Absolute loud and crass. Have no regard for others.”

Carrie frowned, her brow furrowing. “Your unit is 3C, correct?”

“Yes,” I said firmly.

Her frown deepened, and she tapped her pen against the desk. “Hmm… 4C is above you. That’s Ms. Walton.”

“Is there a problem?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Oh, no problem,” Carrie said quickly. “It’s just… surprising. Ms. Walton is retired and widowed. She lives alone, and she’d be the last person I’d expect to cause any kind of disturbance.”

Carrie leaned back in her chair, as if trying to reconcile my account with her mental image of Ms. Walton. She reflected aloud on Ms. Walton’s reputation: a kindhearted woman widely known as a pillar of the community. Her contributions were numerous—volunteering at local food kitchens, deeply involved in her church, including serving meals to the homeless every evening. Local newspapers had even celebrated her efforts, highlighting her dedication to raising funds for refugees and providing essentials like clothing and toiletries to those in need.

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s all great, but it’s definitely not Ms. Walton we’re hearing. Either she has guests staying with her, or there’s something else going on. We are hearing two couples above us. Boy and a girl, around college age. Completely loud and rude. Like they think this is a frat house.”

Carrie tapped her fingernails on the desk, her expression thoughtful. “That’s strange. I’ve never known Ms. Walton to have visitors or cause any issues. She’s really the sweetest lady. You’ll often see her on her morning walks every day at 10 a.m. She always greets everyone she passes.”

I didn’t reply, letting my silence speak for itself.

Noticing my unwavering stare, Carrie suddenly straightened up. “Don’t worry,” she said briskly. “I’ll talk to Ms. Walton today and sort this out. You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, Carrie,” I said, getting up to leave.

Walking out of the office, I felt a sense of relief. This was the reason we’d chosen a place with an onsite leasing office—having someone to handle issues like this promptly. However, as I headed off to work that morning, little did I know this issue wasn’t going to be so easily resolved.

Another dreary morning at the station, the platform teemed with commuters, but the crowd’s movements blurred into the background. Every sound felt amplified, grinding against my nerves like the relentless screech of metal on metal.

A man stood to my left, his attire immaculate—a black trench coat, neatly pressed slacks, and polished oxford shoes. He looked like he was on his way to do a photoshoot for a men’s fashion magazine. But none of that mattered. All I could focus on was the obnoxious smack-smack-smack of his gum, punctuating every word as he chatted loudly on his phone.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his voice rising above the crowd. Smack. “No, the deal’s fine.” Smack, smack. “We’ll close by Friday.” Smack.
The wet, sticky sound seemed to echo in my head. It was as if the gum was speaking louder than the man. I gripped the handle of my briefcase tightly, fighting the urge to turn to him and yell, “Spit it out, for God’s sake! You’d sound much clearer without it!”

I shifted my gaze, desperate for relief, only to spot two squirrels in the park across the street. The pair scurried beneath a sprawling oak tree, their tiny jaws working furiously as they gnawed on acorns. The sound of their chattering teeth reached me even here, a sharp, repetitive crunching that grated against my already frayed patience.

Above me, worse of all, two crows perched on a light pole. They squawked at each other incessantly, their shrill cries cutting through the morning air. “Caw-caw! Caw-caw!” One flapped its wings, sending a tremor through the pole as if punctuating its argument. The sound pierced my ears, pushing me dangerously close to the edge. Even the animals are loud in this damn state.

The train whistle blew in the distance, a brief reprieve from the noise that surrounded me. But it did little to soothe the storm brewing inside. Three months. Three months of this insanity. What had started as the occasional moaning and purring from our upstairs neighbors—“Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”—had escalated into a cacophony of chaos.

The moaning never stopped, but now cursing matches, loud enough to wake the dead, joined it. Profane rap music blasted at all hours of the day and night, the bass rattling our walls. The boy upstairs fancied himself a DJ, spinning tracks at full volume in the dead of night when he wasn’t...occupied.

And Carrie? The once-friendly leasing agent who’d sold us on Oakmont Ridge’s “peace and quiet.” She’d proven utterly useless. Every time I approached her, she’d offer the same empty platitudes. “I’ve filed a complaint with corporate,” she would say with that rehearsed smile. “But I have to wait for their approval before taking action.”

Week after week, I heard the same line, her words like a broken record stuck on repeat. Eventually, I’d had enough. Last Friday morning, I confronted her head-on.

“Carrie, you told us, ‘At Oakmont Ridge, peace and quiet are paramount.’ Does that ring a bell?” I asked, my voice tight with frustration.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fahnbullah—”

“It’s Fahnbulleh,” I snapped. “Not Fahnbullah.”

“Right, that’s what I said. Look, there’s really nothing I can do. This is out of my hands. You’ll have to call corporate.”

“I already did!” I said, my voice rising. “I took an entire day off work just to sit on hold and be redirected back to you. Isn’t this your job?”

Her expression shifted, and for the first time, her polished exterior cracked. “I understand your frustration, sir, but my role is limited. I’ve sent all your recordings to corporate.”

“This is ridiculous! How is no one else complaining about this? They’re DJing in the middle of the night. Middle of the night! Do you even care?”

“If other residents had concerns, we’d act faster,” she said with a shrug, her tone infuriatingly even.

I stared at her, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? And honestly, have you tried speaking directly to Ms. Walton? She’s really a nice woman, practically a saint in the community.”

I said nothing, my silence a boiling mix of disbelief and anger.

“And if that doesn’t work,” she added with a sly, almost vindictive smile, “you can always call the police.”

There was something unsettling about her now—her cheerful facade was gone, replaced by smudged lipstick, dark circles under her eyes, and a spiteful edge to her tone. She was no longer the vibrant Carrie who had once sold us on Oakmont Ridge’s charm. Her smile felt forced, her demeanor more bitter than helpful—a look I had recognized all too well from Destiny.

I walked out (all I could do, really), defeated and seething.

At work, I remained unaffected by the chaos at home. If anything, I thrived. My sharp attention to detail and ability to deliver results earned me accolades, bonuses, and even the suggestion from a senior partner that I could one day be the youngest partner in firm’s history. But my success didn’t lessen the weight of the growing tension at home.

The noise wasn’t the real issue—I could adapt. I always had. I was a West African, extremely resilient by nature. No environment could break me. But Destiny? The noise had eaten away at her. At first, she started calling in sick, then taking days off, until she stopped going to work altogether. When I asked her about it, she waved me off with vague mentions of a “sabbatical,” a claim that made no sense but that I didn’t press further. My income could sustain us both, though it meant delaying our financial goals by a few years. That was manageable. What wasn’t manageable was watching my wife deteriorate before my eyes.

She stopped laughing. Her hair was perpetually unkempt, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She barely left the apartment, cooped up in that noisy hellhole. I tried to help—taking her out to dinner, exploring nearby towns, rekindling the spark we’d shared. For a time, it worked. We laughed, we joked, we made plans for the future. But then, everything unraveled.

“What the hell are all these charges?” she yelled one afternoon, laptop open on the dining table.

“Which charges?” I asked, walking in from work.

“Restaurants! $125 here, $100 there. We’ve spent $3,600 in six months! What the hell, Emmanuel?”

I chuckled nervously, loosening my tie. “That’s us, babe. We know how to have a good time.”

She wasn’t amused. “Bullshit! I know for a FACT we didn’t spend that much. Who are you taking out, Emmanuel? Who?”

Her accusations hit like a slap. “Are you serious? Destiny, it’s just u—”

“Don’t fucking play me!” she screamed, jabbing a finger toward the screen. “You cannot use your bullshit tactics on me. I am a lawyer too.”

I sighed and sat beside her, opening my meticulously organized budget spreadsheet. Every expense had a corresponding scanned receipt—proof that every dollar went toward our nights out together. What could I say? I took pride in being a budget aficionado, carefully tracking where our money went. I showed her how I’d accounted for everything and reassured her that, despite our spending, we were still firmly on track with our savings.

She didn’t argue further, muttering a quiet “Hmm.” But from that moment, she withdrew. Night after night, I suggested we go out, but she refused.

“What I WANT,” she finally said, “is for you to stop pretending everything’s fine. What I want is for you to fix this mess. You’re the one who trapped us in this two-year lease, Emmanuel. You did this.”

The look Destiny gave me that day—sharp, cutting, and full of something I couldn’t quite place—stayed with me. At first, it was fleeting, but over time, it settled in, becoming more permanent. I noticed it most when I’d come home from work. Behind the dark circles under those brown eyes, her frustration and resentment simmered. My wife was starting to hate me, and I ignored it—or maybe I chose to.

“Two years, Emmanuel. Really?”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. And she wielded that hammer mercilessly, using it as ammunition every time the noise from above erupted. There was no counterargument, no strategy to mitigate it. All I could do was sit silently and absorb the blows.

I deserved it. Signing a two-year lease had been a monumental misstep, one of the biggest regrets of my life.

At Oakmont Ridge, the penalties for breaking a lease were steep: paying out the remainder of the term, forfeiting the security deposit, and covering cleaning fees. Worse still, it would leave a black mark on our rental history—something that could derail our financial goals for years. The risk of leaving was too high.

But in hindsight, I should have taken that risk.

I should’ve said, “To hell with the penalties,” packed up our belongings, and left the noise and this cursed state behind. At the very least, I should’ve trusted my instincts, put on my lawyer hat, and negotiated a way out. I knew landlords hated litigation and preferred quick settlements. Regardless, moving back to Georgetown, the city where our love had blossomed, would’ve been worth every cent of the $66,000 in penalties.

Looking back, I knew why I didn’t act: Destiny. At 5’2’’, my wife terrified me. Confronting her with a plan to leave was akin to cornering a tiger, at night. Since moving to Oakmont Ridge, she’d grown more combative, and every day was a fight. Exhaustion—physical and emotional—consumed me as I tried to manage both work and home. But I couldn’t give up; I was committed to this marriage, no matter the circumstances. I wasn’t some deadbeat, like my father.

The arguments were relentless, though. Destiny’s tirades were fiery, laced with every curse word imaginable. I sat there, absorbing her anger like a worn sponge, until she’d tire herself out and retreat to bed. But I didn’t just endure; I tried to make things better. I planned movie nights, cooked her favorite meals, and brought home fresh flowers every Friday. For brief moments, these gestures broke through.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she’d say, her voice cracking as she wiped away tears. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”

Those rare apologies kept me going, even though I knew the situation was my fault. Signing that lease had trapped us both, and every week, Carrie—the once-friendly leasing agent—reminded me of my mistake.

“There’s nothing I can do,” she’d say, her tired face betraying no sympathy.

I hated her for the deception. The smiling, bubbly leasing agent from our tour had vanished, replaced by a cynical woman who couldn’t care less about our suffering. Eventually, I stopped going to her office altogether.

Destiny, too, grew tired of my futile visits.

“Why do you keep seeing her? Do you like her or something?” she spat out one morning.

Her insinuation hung in the air, another painful wound in a marriage that was already bleeding.

Matt and Angie’s arrival had seemed like the tourniquet that would stop the bleeding and save our marriage. But hindsight was cruel, and looking back, I could see it differently. Their surprise move wasn’t a lifeline—it was the fatal blow. How could I have known at the time that their arrival would shatter the fragile bridge holding our relationship together?

When Matt called to break the news, I was confused. “We’re here!” he exclaimed for what felt like the fifth time before I asked him what he meant. Patiently, as if I hadn’t heard him the first four times, he explained that he and Angie had missed us. Both of their jobs had offices in New York City, and with that convenience in mind, they decided to move to the next town over from us.

At first, I was ecstatic. My best friend and his wife—Destiny’s best friend—were going to be neighbors. Yet, if Matt had asked my advice before uprooting their lives, I would have told him to reconsider—vehemently. The noise was already destroying my marriage; I couldn’t bear to see the same happen to theirs. Matt might’ve been able to endure it, but Angie? She was every bit as sensitive to chaos as Destiny. I had no doubt the noise would break her.

Destiny and Angie’s bond ran deep. Best friends since high school, they were more like sisters. They were inseparable, moving through life in tandem: college, applying to law school at Georgetown together, choosing careers in family law, and supporting each other through every step of the journey. Both came from well-to-do African American families in D.C., raised in an atmosphere of privilege and high expectations. Angie, though, had a slightly different upbringing—her father was white, and her mother African American—but their shared values and ambitions cemented their friendship.

Matt was my anchor in law school. I still remember our first day, sitting in a packed lecture hall while the professor launched into a dizzying, jargon-filled diatribe. Everyone around me seemed to be furiously scribbling notes, their heads nodding in understanding. I stared at my empty notepad, utterly lost. When I glanced to my left, there was another blank sheet. The guy sitting next to me ran a hand through his messy, sandy-blond hair, turned to me, and muttered, “I’m not cut out for this shit.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. He laughed too, and that was the beginning of our friendship. “Matt,” he said, offering his hand.

From that day forward, we were bros. Matt had a way of making even the most grueling days bearable, his easygoing humor a constant balm against the pressure of law school. He was the kind of friend you kept for life, and he proved it when he stood by my side as my best man on my wedding day.

It was Destiny and me who introduced Matt and Angie. From the moment they met, sparks flew. Matt’s laid-back charm and Angie’s fiery intelligence were an unlikely but perfect match. They fell for each other instantly, and soon after, they were planning their own wedding—just months after ours.

Now, as they settled into their new home, I should’ve been happy. Yet unease gnawed at me. The curse of this place had already taken so much from Destiny and me. Would it now claim our best friends, too?

To Be Continued

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Previously

But I knew I was tougher than this. After all, I was a West African, an extremely resilient one who was adaptable to any environment.

I wasn’t about to be broken by something as trivial as noise. I kept pushing forward, determined not to let it affect my work. I stayed focused, put in my hours, and didn’t let a hint of fatigue slip through. I earned high praise from my boss and even a few partners at the firm. At work, I was thriving.

Back home, Destiny and I made a pact to ignore the noise, to hold out until our lease was up and leave as soon as we could. We went back to our routines, spending weekends in, cooking and dancing, finding pockets of joy despite the old man’s antics. I’d look over at Destiny, seeing her smiling.

But even if she didn’t say it, I could see the toll it was taking on her. She was quieter than she used to be, and I could tell the exhaustion was sinking in. Dark circles appeared under her eyes, and sometimes she’d zone out mid-sentence, as if the noise was lodged in her mind and she couldn’t shake it.

“Are you okay?” I’d ask, and she’d force a smile, brushing it off.

“I’m fine.”

But I should have known better. My wife was deteriorating before my very eyes, and I chose to ignore it. If only I had taken it more seriously, my marriage would have been saved.

It started with something as simple as a phone and a laptop.

One morning, fresh out of the shower, I walked into the bedroom and caught Destiny, my phone in hand, scrolling through my notifications. She glanced up, but instead of looking startled, she held my gaze steadily before turning her eyes back to the screen, as if I weren’t even there.

“Everything alright?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Just checking something,” she murmured, fingers flicking through the messages. Then, with a frown, she clicked open my work laptop, eyes scanning through an email. I chuckled, deciding it wasn’t worth addressing. Marriage, to me, meant sharing everything with your partner, down to the last unread email. Besides, I’d never been one for strict boundaries when it came to privacy.

But her questions started soon after. They seemed innocent at first.

“Who’s Gabriela, and why did she call you ‘my work husband’?” she asked one evening as we cleared the dishes.

“Gabriela?” I glanced at her, confused. “Oh, that’s just a joke. She’s another new attorney, like me at the firm. Gabriela’s always calling me that because she says I’m too serious at work.” I chuckled, but Destiny’s expression remained stiff, her only response a quiet, “Hmm.” I’d thought nothing of it, but she grew distant over the following days.

From then on, every time my phone pinged, I felt her eyes flick toward it. Once, while I checked a scam message, she leaned over with a smirk. “Ooo, is that your ‘wife’ Gabriela?”

I laughed, brushing it off. “No, just spam text.” Her expression remained unreadable.

It didn’t stop there. Little things became reasons for her irritation. If I left the toilet seat up, she’d snap, “Do you even care about me? You don’t care about my feelings at all.” If I forgot to tell her she looked beautiful before we went out, she’d accuse me of taking her for granted. The smallest things became battlegrounds, her every word tinged with suspicion, as though she were waiting for me to confess something.

And one evening, she finally said it. After a quiet dinner, she put down her fork, looked me dead in the eye. “Are you fucking Gabriela?”

I blinked, stunned. “What? Destiny, where’s this coming from?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Are you fucking her?”

“First off, please do not use that language with me. You know how I feel about cursing.”

“She’s latina, isn’t she? I know you have a thing for latinas. Them and redbones.”

“I have a thing for my WIFE,” I said firmly.

It escalated from there, her accusations rolling over me like thunder. I barely remember what I said, but it ended with her in the bedroom, locking the door, and me curled up on the couch, staring at the ceiling all night like an idiot.

Even on nights when we didn’t fight, I’d feel her stirring in bed beside me, her breath coming fast, as if from a bad dream. Sometimes, she’d even bolt upright, drenched in sweat, before slumping back onto the pillow. Once, she hit me over the head with a pillow, muttering something before drifting back to sleep.

The only thing that stopped the noise from above was our arguments. Every time Destiny and I fought, the chaos from upstairs would fall silent, as if the old man were tuned into our lives, relishing the turmoil he’d ignited.

But I wasn’t about to let him win, not like this. I made up my mind to restore the peace between Destiny and me, no matter what it took. One evening, I sat her down for a real heart-to-heart and promised her, in no uncertain terms, that I would never betray her. If anything, I’d rather die than go down that road. To me, marriage wasn’t just a vow—it was a line I’d drawn for myself, a commitment to be nothing like my father. I told her about the day he left: how I’d watched him shake off my kneeling pregnant mother’s pleading hands as he walked out the door, rain pattering on the metal roof of our shack, how he hadn’t so much as looked back at my brother or me. A little boy could never forget that. From that day on, I’d sworn to myself that I’d be a better man, far more than him.

I needed her to understand that I was here for the long haul, willing to do whatever it took to rebuild the trust between us. So, I promised her full access to my phone, my laptop, whatever she wanted. I told her I’d cut down on any banter with Gabriela, and I’d keep her updated on my work schedule, even sharing my location so she’d always know where I was.

It went deeper than I’d realized. My best friends from Georgetown—the same guys who stood by my side at our wedding—kept pushing the same advice: “Take her out. Show her around.” They insisted we couldn’t just stay locked up in the apartment if we wanted to be happy here. I argued that Destiny and I were homebodies by nature and that I hated everything about the state, but they wouldn’t let it drop. And to be fair, I hadn’t mentioned the old man’s antics or noise to them. Still, they believed that giving this state a chance, actually getting out and experiencing it, might change things. “How can you hate somewhere you’ve never explored?”

So, I set aside some money, planning nights out, and more places to visit. If this would help Destiny feel more secure, more loved, then it was worth every penny.

Honestly, minus the noise, this state had its charms. Destiny and I came across many things to explore here, and we made the most of it. Weekends were spent wandering museums, lounging in parks, strolling boardwalks, or walking stretches of beach—all reminders of why we’d chosen this state in the first place. But the food? That became our favorite discovery. The range of places felt endless, and the West African spots especially felt like a piece of home.

Watching Destiny try the dishes of my childhood was a favorite memory. Her eyes lit up with her first taste of Jollof rice, each grain carrying a smoky, spicy kick. She savored the nutty richness of Palm butter and the fiery warmth of Dumboy with pepper soup. The fried plantains, crisp with a caramelized center, were an instant favorite. Sharing these flavors brought us back to ourselves, laughing and reminiscing like we had in simpler times, reminded of everything we still had to hold onto.

My friends were right. By focusing on each other, Destiny and I found our peace again. Night after night, we slept soundly, the old nincompoop’s antics fading into the background. Weekends gave us something to look forward to, and work kept us busy and thriving. It felt like we’d turned the tide, leaving him with less power to disrupt us.

And maybe he noticed. His routines started to falter—some nights, he forgot to vacuum, and during dinner, the stomping even paused. It was as if he realized his efforts weren’t reaching us anymore.

Still, complacency was a risk. We had our moments. Sometimes, I’d slip up, usually at the worst times. Even a fleeting glance at a beautiful waitress taking our order was enough to spark the tension. Her clipped tone and sharp looks left no room for doubt.

“I want to go home,” she’d say abruptly. “I’m not feeling well.”

Confused, I’d blink. “Home? We haven’t even gotten our food.”

“I have a headache, Emmanuel. Stay if you like, but I’m going home,” she’d reply, purse already in hand.

Each time, I’d scramble to cancel the order and catch up to her before she drove off. Eventually, I learned my lesson—no lingering glances, no matter how harmless. Even a TV commercial with a pretty model wasn’t worth the fallout.

Despite these hiccups, life smoothed out. Taking Destiny out turned out to be the key to saving our marriage. We argued less, laughed more, and the noise from above was almost nonexistent. Before we knew it, our lease was down to two months.

With our lease nearing its end, I turned my focus to finding a new home—somewhere peaceful, a true retreat from the chaos we’d endured. The suburbs had always been part of the plan, and after thorough research, I zeroed in on a town. Not too far from our old place and ease of access to NYC, it had everything we wanted: tree-lined streets, a beautiful downtown square, a slower pace, and, most importantly, quiet.

I came across a newly built luxury apartment complex that was perfect. It boasted all the bells and whistles—clubroom with a rooftop pool, fitness center with a yoga studio, dog park, and secure parking. The apartments were modern, pristine, and—judging by the photos—free of the creaks and quirks we were suffering through.

Online reviews for Oakmont Ridge were glowing, filled with endorsements from working professionals. “You will love it here. The apartments are stunning and quiet.” “The buildings are immaculate and peaceful.” “Oakmont feels like a 5-star hotel, and it’s near the train station!”

Promising as they were, I wasn’t ready to take them at face value; I needed to see for myself.

Destiny and I arrived at Oakmont Ridge on a crisp Sunday afternoon, ready to meet with the leasing agent. Carrie greeted us in the front office with an energy that matched her vibrant appearance—bright red hair and lipstick to match, paired with a cheerful smile that immediately set us at ease.

“Welcome to Oakmont Ridge!” she exclaimed, her enthusiasm radiating as she extended a hand to each of us. Her cheerful, happy-go-lucky energy was surprisingly contagious, and I felt my usual skepticism start to soften. Destiny seemed equally taken in, leaning forward with interest as Carrie launched into her overview of the complex.

Carrie led us through the grounds, pointing out the highlights with a practiced but genuine enthusiasm. “All of our residents are either empty-nesters or working professionals,” she explained as we passed the fitness center. “Nobody bothers anybody. Everybody here values peace and quiet.”

Her words were music to my ears. Destiny gave me a subtle nudge, a silent “This is what we are looking for.”

We toured the fitness center, complete with state-of-the-art equipment and a serene yoga studio bathed in natural light. Destiny smiled as she took it all in, already imagining herself unrolling her yoga mat in one of the quiet corners. Next, Carrie guided us to the rooftop pool. Though closed for the season, its sparkling water and inviting lounge chairs promised relaxing summer weekends ahead.

“This is like a resort,” Destiny whispered to me, her eyes wide with delight. I nodded, my skepticism beginning to thaw.

Inside the apartment building, the quiet was almost eerie in its perfection. A Sunday afternoon—prime time for people to be home—but the hallways were still, the only sound the faint hum of the HVAC system. You could hear a pin drop. It felt worlds away from the stomping, vacuuming chaos that we were accustomed to.

Our tour ended with the unit Carrie had reserved for us: a third-floor, one-bedroom and one bath apartment with a balcony that overlooked a manicured courtyard. The vaulted ceilings gave the space an open, airy feel. The gourmet kitchen, complete with gleaming countertops and stainless-steel appliances, caught Destiny’s eye. I could already picture us cooking together, her laughter filling the space. The bedroom was spacious: the walk-in closet a luxury we hadn’t realized we needed. And the bathroom? Spa-like, with a rainfall showerhead, a large bathtub and sleek finishes.

“I love it,” Destiny said, practically glowing.

My impression was equally strong, but before committing, I had some questions. “What’s your noise policy?” I asked, fixing Carrie with a serious look.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, we take noise very seriously. Since this complex was built, I’ve never had a single noise complaint—and I’ve been here from day one. Like I said, everyone here is quiet and respects each other’s space.”

I pressed further. “But what if someone does make noise?”

Carrie smiled confidently. “First warning, they get a strongly worded letter. Second warning, there’s a fine—a permanent 25% rent increase. Third time? Eviction. We allow no compromises. At Oakmont Ridge, peace and quiet are paramount.”

Her words sealed the deal for me. When she handed over the lease terms—options for one year, and two years—I didn’t hesitate. “Two years,” I said, grinning as I signed.

“Are you sure, baby?” Destiny asked, her voice cautious.

“Positive. This is perfect.”

On the drive home, Destiny still looked a little uncertain. I took her hand and explained, “I did a lot of research on Oakmont. The reviews, the policies, the tour—it all checks out. This is the real deal. I’m sure of it.”

Destiny smiled, her excitement returning. Later than I knew, I would eat my words and sow the seeds to my downfall.

The night before the move felt almost surreal. Knowing that the torment was coming to an end gave Destiny and me an unexpected calm. We’d packed everything days ago, boxes neatly stacked against the walls, the emptiness of the apartment echoing with our anticipation for what lay ahead. But the old man upstairs must have sensed our impending departure because that night, he unleashed every trick in his sadistic playbook.

The stomping started around 10 PM, deliberate and relentless, the sound of heavy boots crashing against the floor like hammers on steel. The vacuum whirred to life shortly after, a droning hum that moved in unpredictable bursts across the ceiling. Then came the water—faucets left running at full blast, their gurgling cacophony reverberating through the old pipes. As if to top it all off, the radio static returned, crackling like a swarm of angry bees directly above our bedroom.

Destiny rolled onto my side. “Is he really giving us a farewell concert?” she whispered, her voice tinged with both exhaustion and amusement.

I chuckled, shaking my head. We drifted off to sleep, the old man’s chaos fading into the background like white noise.

Morning came with a rare brightness, sunlight streaming through the blinds as if congratulating us on reaching the end of this chapter. Destiny and I moved quickly, energized by the thought of leaving. The movers arrived promptly, their efficiency a welcome sight. Box after box, they loaded our lives into the moving van, their movements brisk and coordinated.

Still, I noticed the sideways glances they gave us as they worked. One mover, carrying a large box labeled “Kitchen,” paused near the door, tilting his head toward the ceiling. Above, the chaos continued unabated—thunderous stomps, the screech of furniture dragging, the faint hiss of water running somewhere in the walls.

I smiled at him.

He nodded, muttering something under his breath as he headed back to the truck.

By late morning, the apartment was empty. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, keys in hand, Destiny by my side. The space felt oddly foreign without our belongings, a hollow shell of the life we’d tried to build here.

As per the property management’s instructions, I left the keys on the counter. Before locking the door for the last time, I couldn’t resist glancing up at the ceiling. The noise was still there, as maddening as ever, but instead of anger, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

“Good riddance, you old nincompoop,” I muttered, loud enough for Destiny to hear but not enough to carry upstairs. “I hope you burn in hell.”

Destiny smirked.

“Come on, let’s go. Our new home is waiting.”

To Be Continued

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Previously

It was just past midnight, and the apartment was bathed in the soft glow of the moon through our bedroom window. Destiny and I had spent Friday night cozying up on the couch, watching our favorite show, following dinner I’d left work early to surprise her with. It was one of those rare, perfect evenings, the kind that made the long workweek worth it. When we finally turned in, sleep came easily, wrapping us both in that deep, satisfying rest that only comes after a good night together.

But a harsh, grinding sound cut through the silence, jolting me awake. I opened my eyes, groggy and disoriented, feeling Destiny stir beside me. The noise above was strange, relentless, like a dull roar that seemed to sweep back and forth directly over our bedroom. It took me a minute to make sense of it, but as the sleep cleared from my mind, I realized—it was the unmistakable, droning sound of a vacuum cleaner. Only it wasn’t steady; it was erratic, scraping against the ceiling, as if someone were dragging it in haphazard circles overhead.

Destiny sat up beside me, rubbing her eyes. “Is someone... vacuuming?”

Her words seemed ridiculous. Who vacuumed at this hour? Still half-asleep, my mind drifted to Patty’s story about the previous tenant. I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe this was some remnant of her—a strange spell cast, perhaps, or something worse. But just as quickly, I dismissed the idea. The stomping that suddenly thundered from above was too solid, too ordinary to be anything but a person.

“Are you serious?” I said, feeling my irritation simmer. “Who the hell vacuums their apartment at night?”

Destiny sighed, annoyed but too tired to argue. “Maybe it’s some kind of mistake.”

But then came another round of stomping, forcefully this time, as if whoever was above was walking back and forth with heavy boots on, making a point of every step. I threw off the covers, exasperated, and headed to the kitchen. Grabbing the broom, I tapped on the ceiling, trying to signal that we were, in fact, below and trying to sleep. But the noise only intensified—the vacuum’s hum whirred louder, the stomping heavier, as if it had only fueled this person’s resolve to disrupt us.

Annoyed, I tapped the ceiling again, harder this time, the broom handle rattling in my hands. I didn’t stop until I felt Destiny’s hand on my arm. “Babe, stop. He’s doing it on purpose. Don’t give him what he wants.”

Reluctantly, I lowered the broom and lay back in bed, trying to ignore the relentless noise. I knew one thing for sure: first thing morning, I’d be filing a complaint with the landlord. But for the rest of the night, sleep was impossible. The sounds only grew louder until the first light of dawn finally broke through the window.

Saturday morning, I quickly reached for my phone, ready to call the landlord, only to realize their office was closed on weekends. The neighbor above, meanwhile, seemed determined to keep up his disruption. Every step sounded like a deliberate stomp, vibrating through the ceiling. Sometimes it seemed he was moving furniture; other times, pacing in a slow, taunting rhythm. From the rough coughing fits we could hear between stomps, I guessed he was an elderly man.

The disruption continued all weekend, the stomping becoming more intense during the day, and the vacuuming, louder and more aggressive, picking up each night. I couldn’t shake the idea of heading up there, confronting this person face-to-face, but Destiny pulled me back each time. “This is the East Coast. You never know who’s packing.”

I bit my tongue, but every time I heard the heavy boots thundering above, a fresh surge of anger simmered inside. It was all I could do to keep myself in check, waiting for Monday morning when I could finally report this menace to the landlord.

Monday morning arrived, and I felt a surge of determination. I was finally going to bring the landlord’s attention to our situation. But when I called the landlord’s office on my morning commute to work, it wasn’t the landlord I was speaking to but a woman from a property management company that, apparently, handled everything for the apartment building. I described the neighbor’s rowdy behaviors, his late-night vacuuming and relentless stomping, expecting they’d intervene.

“Sir,” she interrupted flatly, “if you’re having trouble with your neighbors, you should contact the police. We don’t handle personal disputes.” And just like that before I could say more, she hung up.

I sat there, holding the phone, more stunned than angry at first. But as her words sank in, frustration started simmering, spreading through my veins like a slow burn. I hadn’t wanted to get the law involved, not over something as petty as noise, but as soon as we got home that night, the old man’s stomping picked up again. And by the time he’d started vacuuming, Destiny and I were desperate. I called the police.

A knock on the door announced the officers’ arrival: a male officer, broad-shouldered and stern, and his partner, a petite woman who looked equally annoyed. Their faces told me enough; this wasn’t their first visit here, and their patience was paper-thin. I took a deep breath, holding my frustration in check, and recounted the old man’s antics, emphasizing his incessant stomping, his odd hours, the vacuum that ran deep into the night.

“He’s up there now?” the woman asked, pointing up.

“Yes,” I said, unable to keep the tension out of my voice. “Even now. Just go up there, you’ll hear it yourself.”

The officers exchanged a look, then the man nodded. “Alright. We’ll talk to him, give him a warning this needs to stop. Or, he’ll face a fine.”

I thanked them, relief flooding me. Finally, someone was going to put an end to this madness. As the officers climbed the stairs, I turned to Destiny, grinning.

“See? My charisma never fails. Babe, I am natural!”

Destiny laughed, but before long, the officers were back, and my smile quickly faded after I heard what they had to say.

“He’s an old veteran,” the male officer said in a somber tone. “He said he’s moving.”

I felt my face twist in confusion. “Moving? By vacuuming at two in the morning?”

The woman nodded sympathetically. “He says he’s just clearing things up, packing. Didn’t look like he knew he was causing trouble.”

“Packing?” My voice rose before I felt Destiny’s soft hand on my arm. “You believe him?”

“He told us he’d be out by tomorrow,” the male officer said. “So you won’t have to worry much longer.”

With that, the officers gave a nod and left. But Destiny and I knew the truth: the old man had fed them a story, and they’d ate it up completely. I could imagine his words, dripping with false innocence—“Oh, I didn’t know I was causing any bother, Officers. An old veteran like me, vacuuming all night on purpose? I would never. I’m just packing.”

As soon as the officers left, the vacuum started up again. This time, he revved it higher, louder, with a mocking persistence that sent a pulse of anger through me. Destiny and I exchanged a look, silently agreeing not to call the police again. We’d give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping that tomorrow he’d be gone and the nightmare would end.

Morning brought more of the same. The stomping greeted us as we got ready for work, each step a reminder of the noise we’d endured all night. That nincompoop wasn’t packing—he was tormenting us.

“Maybe he’ll be gone by tonight,” Destiny murmured, as we headed out the door.

I held on to that hope, but it was shattered by the time we returned from work. The moment our door shut behind us, the stomping resumed, louder and closer, as though he was following our every step. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor above was like nails on a chalkboard, adding insult to injury. We went through dinner, watching TV, trying to unwind, all the while the old man kept his pace above us, relentlessly.

Finally, we turned in for the night, hoping sleep would come. But, as if on cue, the vacuum roared to life, louder than it had ever been, grinding against the ceiling as the old man stomped, as if determined to break through.

I snatched up my phone and dialed the police. This time, the dispatcher assured me someone was on their way, but no one came. That night, the old man made sure it would be unforgettable. Each step and hum from above constantly reminded us he wasn’t finished with us yet.

Exhausted, we lay awake, side by side, as the first light of dawn crept through the window. This would be our new normal from then on.

That old nincompoop knew we’d called the police and, most likely, knew that nothing could be done. Our complaint had exposed us. It was like we’d handed him a map of our vulnerabilities, showing him exactly how to crank up his tactics.

The nights became a symphony of torment. The stomping continued, aggressive than before, heavy boots thundering across the floor with each step he took. But the stomping was just the prelude. He dragged his chair across the floor deliberately, each screeching scrap of wood against carpet an assault on our nerves. The vacuuming returned, roaring to life in the middle of the night just as Destiny and I would finally start drifting off to sleep. Even after he had worn himself out from vacuuming, he kept going. He’d leave his radio on overnight—only he didn’t bother to tune it to any station. The static whine of an untuned frequency spilled through the ceiling and into our bedroom like a persistent, grating scream.

Then he made even water into a weapon. With water included in the lease, he didn’t have to pay for it, so he’d leave the bathroom faucet on all night. I could hear the water rattling through the old pipes in the building, sloshing and echoing as a constant reminder that he was always above us. The walls seemed to amplify every sound he made. The noise became a living thing, sinking its claws into us, stretching into every hour and corner of our lives. I could feel myself wearing down, and I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe that last tenant hadn’t been a witch at all. She’d just been the last victim in a line of them, broken by this old man and his noise of torment.

I’d go to bed each night with the promise of sleep, only to lie awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to that chaos unfold above me. And each morning, I’d get up, exhausted. Destiny and I would walk to the train station together, heading into the workday, and it was like my senses were under siege from every angle. Every sound on my way to work drilled into me—the hiss of bus brakes, the screech of light rail wheels, the honking horns, the wailing ambulances, the clatter of trains on the tracks and commuters’ endless chatter. Even the pigeons, their wings flapping over the station platform, sounded like drumbeats in my ears.

I tried to keep it all out, but the noise seeped in, poisoning each minute of my day. I felt a fresh anger growing with each hiss, screech, honk, wail, clatter, flap and chatter. I didn’t belong here.

This state was eating away at me, leaving only resentment in its place.

To Be Continued

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“I hate this state. My biggest regret was moving here.”

I looked her dead in the eyes, my voice flat but seething. I wanted her to hear the weight of every word before she got comfortable in that chair. It didn’t matter that she was a native to this state.

This state—this state—had bled me dry, piece by piece since the day I stepped foot within its border, thriving on my suffering. I lost my civility, a beautiful wife, a lucrative career and freedom. I clenched my fists, pushing my knuckles hard against the underside of the cold metal table. “I hate this damn state!” I screamed inside, the words too heavy to escape my throat.

I could almost imagine the tears that should be streaming down my unshaven cheeks. I hadn’t cried since the day I came out of my mother’s womb, gasping for breath in one of the poorest slums in the world. There hadn’t been time for tears in my life. And somehow, sitting in this sterile interrogation room, across from a pale, square-jawed white woman, felt like some twisted form of achievement.

I was a West African, an extremely resilient one at that. I was adaptable to any environment.

“Mr. Fan...Fan...bullie,” she said, stumbling and squinting at the folder in front of her.

“It’s Fahnbulleh! Fawn-bul-layh,” I spat, my lips curling with irritation. “You can say it right. Inconsiderate as—nincompoop.”

Strange, with my life seemingly upside down, I still could not utter a single curse word. The power of a Christian’s upbringing (I guessed), shaped by a mother who refused to give up on faith—or on her family. Even now, in my adult years as an atheist, I appreciated it. A Christian upbringing was what had carried me to the success I knew before this downward spiral.

Walked out on by my father and already expecting twins, she’d had two options in our unforgiving slum to feed her family—use her body or her head. My younger brother and I were indebted to her for choosing the latter.

My mother had been creative, relentless, finding ways to make things work when we had nothing. Up before dawn, she’d fry akara on charcoals. Even now, I could smell those bean cakes drifting through the air as she sold them on the roadside. When akara and dry rice parcels weren’t enough, she’d make ginger beer, always cold and spicy, pouring drinks to customers in the heat of the day.

But in the slum, money wasn’t easy, and feeding a family took more than street selling. Yet, mother always found a way: cleaning houses in the wealthy districts or lugging buckets of water and hauling sand on construction sites. She taught herself to sew, piecing together lappa suits and stitching school uniforms, pouring every penny into us, her children, so we’d have food and, more importantly, a chance at an education.

“Emmanuel, I want you to be somebody. You are going to be somebody.” Those words would always echo in my mind.

When there was nothing left and we’d go to bed hungry for days on end, she’d take us to the church. In my country, there was no welfare, no food stamps—only the kindness of the congregation and Pastor Samuel, who knew everyone in our neighborhood by name. He’d hand us warm food, sometimes even rally the church members to help with the little things, like medicine or clothing, even helping my mother deliver my youngest siblings, the twins, when she couldn’t afford hospital care.

Pastor Samuel… he’d seen something in me. He noticed my curiosity, my fascination with the books he kept tucked away on the dusty shelf in his study. First, he handed me the Bible. I read it cover to cover. Then Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, then Cervantes, Melville, Homer and Twain. Those books opened my mind, showed me possibilities I’d never dreamed of.

When I’d finished secondary school, it was he who handed me an application and encouraged me to apply. Said I had a future waiting, far from here. And when, against all odds, I won the lottery; I promised myself I’d make it count.

I arrived in Washington, DC, with nothing but the clothes on my back. Driven by the resilience my mother instilled in me and Pastor Samuel’s faith in my potential, I worked and sent money back home whilst studying tirelessly through college. Eventually, I earned an acceptance at Georgetown Law, then graduated to join one of the world’s most prestigious law firms. Every success I achieved was rooted in those early lessons of survival and determination.

Surely, life could not be this cruel. To come this far just for it all to end like this?

“Mr. Fahnbullie… Mr. Fahnbullie?”

Her voice sounded distant, like an echo in a tunnel, but then something sharper snapped me back—her pen. The scratches of it, each rough stroke against the notebook paper, cut into my thoughts like sandpaper on stone. I felt my fingers clench tighter, my knuckles pressing harder against the table. She had said my name at least three times, but I kept my focus locked on the sound of her pen, dragging with pointless purpose. It was all I could do not to lunge across the table and yank it from her hand.

Then came another sound, one I hadn’t registered until now: the fluorescent lights overhead, their electric buzz grinding in my ears, pulsing with a steady hum that matched the beating of my temples. Each crackle felt like a hot needle behind my eyes.

Her breathing joined in next, rough and labored. She’d take in a long inhale, then a quick sniff, swallowing the mucus lodged somewhere in her throat. Every breath grated against my nerves, and every time she pulled in that air, that mucus, it took every ounce of self-control I had not to slam my fists on the table and tell her to blow her damn nose.

And, as if that wasn’t enough, she started tapping her foot—a sharp, mindless rhythm. Each tap of her heel on the linoleum floor felt like a hammer pounding in my head.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. Lashing out at this woman wouldn’t help my case. No—it’d do the exact opposite. Being pinned for the murder of an elderly woman, only to then explode in front of a forensic psychologist, would be the last nail in the coffin. And besides… Destiny. She’d be certain for sure and so would her father, my once biggest supporter.

“You were right, babygirl,” I could almost hear her father say, his voice laden with disappointment. “If he’s crazy enough to kill an old woman, I can’t imagine what he put you through.”

I exhaled, slowly unclenching my fists, lifting my hands up to lie flat on the table. I could keep it together. Calmness was my life’s blood. After all, I was a lawyer, a damn good corporate one, on his way to becoming partner, before this mess. I would answer every one of her questions with unwavering control; I would deny every charge; and I would direct her to the real culprit or culprits. I knew who was to blame. But since arriving here, it seemed no one could listen long enough to hear the truth.

My nerves were frayed, I must admit. This room, this woman with her incessant scrawling and sniffing—it was all chipping away at me, bit by bit. And somehow, that seemed to sum up everything about this state: noise. Nothing but noise. Not just any ordinary damn noise though, like the usual city sounds I’d grown accustomed to over the years. This one was much worse: a noise so chaotic and, at the same time, a grinding wheel, wearing you down to your most vulnerable. Invasive more than ever, it spread into every corner of your mind until you were hollowed out.

I exhaled, hard, squeezing my eyes tight shut to keep it all in check. But the memories came flooding back, unbidden—the first day Destiny and I crossed into this state border, teeming with excitement, fresh as newlyweds. We’d met at Georgetown, fallen hard for each other, and walked across the commencement stage as husband and wife. What could I say? “When you know, you know.” And I’d known from the moment I first saw her, drawn to those warm brown eyes and that bright, beautiful smile.

Destiny was empathetic to her core. That’s what I loved most about her—she just got me. Or at least, she used to. Now, I couldn’t understand why she’d suddenly turned against me.

She wasn’t just my wife; she’d been my best friend. By the time we were married, she’d learned enough of my mother tongue to chat with her and my siblings each month when I called home. It was endearing, hearing the two of them chatter and laugh on the phone for hours, as if they’d known each other all their lives. Sometimes I’d step in to translate a missed word or two, but mostly, they’d talk like giddy teenage girls. My mother adored her, and at the end of every call, she’d remind me she was waiting on babies. I’d laugh, telling her to be patient. America was expensive, and starting a family was something Destiny and I wanted to plan carefully.

Destiny and I had a plan, one we were both committed to. We were young, just beginning our careers as a corporate lawyer and a family lawyer, and had mapped out our goals carefully. A couple of years working hard, saving up, then buying a modest house in cash before we even thought about kids. We’d both fallen under the spell of Dave Ramsey back in law school, and in our spare moments, we’d binge-watch his YouTube videos, fueling our belief that we could make that dream a reality. Like squirrels stashing acorns, we’d agreed to save every dollar we earned along the way.

That’s why we chose this state over New York City, despite both our jobs being in Manhattan. This state was cheaper, better for saving, and we’d found a second-floor apartment. The apartment, in an old building, was far from perfect, but it felt like a beginning. The rent was relatively cheap, and we were within walking distance of the train station, with a direct line into the city. We were full of hope, full of plans. Back then, it felt like everything was right there, waiting for us to reach out and grab it.

Moving day was exhausting, but there was a thrill to it, too—the kind that comes from finally starting something new with the love of your life. Destiny and I lugged box after box up the narrow stairwell, brushing past old banisters and worn carpet as we made our way to our new place on the second floor. Just as I set a box down to unlock our door, I caught sight of an elderly couple standing next to the door beside ours, watching us with interest.

“Hey there!” called the woman, waving us over with a broad smile. She was short, with silver curls and a light complexion that matched her husband’s. “I’m Patty, and this is my husband, James. We’re your neighbors.”

Destiny and I exchanged a look, then walked over to introduce ourselves. James, a tall, wiry man with a grizzled beard, gave me a nod. He was shorter than me—by at least a couple of inches, if I had to guess. I stood a solid 6’4” without shoes. Regardless, he stayed quiet as Patty launched right into conversation.

“Oh, we’re just so blessed to have you all moving in,” Patty said, clasping her hands. “I can tell you two are not trouble.”

“Oh, no,” Destiny said, chuckling. “My husband and I are far from tro—”

“What is it you two do for a living?” Patty asked eagerly, leaning in.

Destiny looked at me before answering. “We’re both attorneys.”

“Well, thank the Lord!” Patty said, practically beaming as she nudged James in the ribs. “I told you they weren’t trouble. A power couple, like Michelle and Barack! Just what this building needs.”

“Far from the Obamas,” I said, laughing lightly, but Patty was already off on her next thought.

“It’s been terrible with these students,” she continued, shaking her head. “Drunk parties every weekend, music so loud the walls shake. And that terrible skunk-like smell filling the halls.”

I nodded, recalling the nearby university we’d passed on our drive in. “Yeah, I see why it attracts a lot of students.”

James gave a weary sigh. “We’ve dealt with it all—fistfights, shouting matches, you name it.”

“Absolute heathens!” Patty exclaimed. Then, leaning in closer, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know, none of that was as strange as the last tenant in your place.”

Destiny raised an eyebrow. “Strange how?”

Patty’s expression turned serious, her smile vanishing. “She wasn’t like the other students. This girl... she was…different. Quiet, gloomy. She’d never say a word to anyone, never smiled, wouldn’t even look at you if you said hello. Just a dark soul.”

I glanced at Destiny, who had gone still, watching Patty intently. “Did something happen?” I asked.

Patty nodded, her eyes narrowing. “At night, we’d hear chanting from her apartment—some strange language I’d never heard—and she’d play this eerie music. I told James more than once, ‘That girl’s a witch. I’m sure of it.’” She crossed herself quickly, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

Destiny, a little unsettled but more curious, asked, “Really?”

“Oh yeah, really. One night, there was a loud racket coming from her place that we thought had to be something serious. The next thing we know, the police show up. They broke down her door, restrained her, and took her away. I think her parents staged an intervention and had her committed. Because we never saw her again.”

“And she jacked that place up too,” James said, glancing at Patty before continuing on. “Workers were in there for weeks after. I think they had to gut half of—”

Patty’s face brightened with sudden energy. “Oh, yes! They had a whole separate dumpster just to get rid of her stuff. I overheard some workers saying they’d never seen anyone wreck a place like that. I mean, it was like…”

I shifted uncomfortably, only half-listening as Patty continued talking. I kept a polite smile on my face, though I found myself watching her mouth move rapidly, words pouring out like a bad case of diarrhea.

At her first pause, Destiny and I took the chance to jump in, thanking them both for the welcome before making a quick escape back to our door.

Once we were inside, Destiny shook her head, stifling a laugh. “That woman is wearing that poor man down,” she said. “Let’s hope I don’t turn out like that one day.”

“Only if I turn superstitious, too,” I said, making a cross over my chest.

Destiny laughed softly. “She reminded me of my grandma.”

“Your grandma? I thought I was looking right at my mom. Did I tell you she wanted me to pray over this apartment before we signed the lease? As if we had time to wait and pray in this market.”

My mother still did not know about my change in faith since moving to the States. She didn’t even know that Destiny was an atheist. On our calls, we never brought it up—not me, and certainly not Destiny when I passed the phone over. My mother’s hymns and praises to the Lord were always met with a simple “Amen” from me, a familiar ritual I knew she took comfort in.

As the sun set through our living room’s bare window, I wrapped my arms around Destiny’s waist, taking in our new place. Patty hadn’t been wrong about the renovations. The fresh paint, polished cabinets, and brand-new appliances were clear evidence of a recent overhaul. If the last tenant’s chaos had led to this, we had lucked out with a newly renovated apartment at a bargain price.

Over the next few days, we unpacked, had new furniture delivered, and transformed the apartment into a cozy sanctuary of our own. Within two weeks, we’d settled into a routine—commuting together to and from the city, arriving home in time for dinner, and unwinding at night. Ideally, that was our rhythm, though both of our jobs demanded long hours. But Destiny and I did our best to make it work.

We were homebodies anyway, happy to spend weekends in: cooking together, playing board games, and dancing around the kitchen.

But, as they say, good things rarely last. Our time in this state had barely begun when the first rude intrusion of noise shattered our peace.

To Be Continued

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Previously

Khadijah groggily opened her eyes to the faint chorus of night insects, their rhythmic chirping blending with the distant hooting of an owl. She rubbed her eyes, still heavy and lethargic, and was on the verge of drifting off again when the owl’s calls grew louder, more incessant. Or maybe her ears…

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The sky was a dull gray, thick with the promise of rain, as Khadijah shuffled along the dusty road of her border town. Each step stirred up puffs of reddish-brown dust, which lingered in the heavy air. Balanced on her head was a ceramic platter piled high with oranges, their bright color striking against the gloomy backdrop. She took pride in her oranges, carefully polished to the shine that Farid preferred.

She had heard the news—Farid had returned. Her heart quickened at the thought of seeing him again, her loyal customer, who had always been kind to her. Nearly a year had passed since he left with his family for Lebanon, seeking treatment after that terrible night. 

Khadijah vividly recalled the chaos and fear of that night. She felt the weight of guilt settle on her shoulders when she had learned days later it was her own family, chiefly her father, who had sheltered the troubled old man believed to be behind it all—the same old man who had brought violence to Farid’s doorstep and others.

As Khadijah made her way through the bustling market, the vendors were packing up their goods in anticipation of the approaching storm. She barely noticed them, her mind filled with the memory of when she first learned about the extent of Farid’s injuries. The whispered conversations amongst the townsfolk about the horror his wife and three children had endured, watching helplessly as their loved one sustained a dislocated shoulder, fractured ribs, and multiple bruises as well as lacerations on his face that left him nearly unrecognizable. No doubt Farid was lucky to be alive, as agreed by all in town. 

She had wanted to apologize, to offer some comfort, no matter how small. But when she finally gathered the courage to visit his home, empty rooms and silence greeted her. The housekeeper informed that Farid and his family had left for Lebanon weeks earlier, just a few days after their ordeal.

Now that Farid was back in town, Khadijah felt the burden of the past year beginning to lift. She hoped he had found some peace and healing in his homeland and that her gift of bright, sweet oranges would express what she couldn’t put into words, ultimately bringing a sense of normalcy to him and his family. She intended to offer the oranges for free, but she knew Farid would never accept such generosity. He would insist on paying full price and then a little extra for them from his favorite street vendor.

A sudden crack of thunder shattered the air, jolting Khadijah from her thoughts. The loud sound echoed throughout the market, sending a flock of birds soaring from nearby trees. Startled, Khadijah quickly picked up her pace, the platter of oranges wobbling precariously atop her head. She needed to reach Farid’s house before the storm broke.

The thought of seeing Farid excited her, so much so that she hadn’t noticed the ominous clouds gathering overhead before she set out. Now, as the sky darkened and the first drops of rain fell, Khadijah realized how much she had underestimated the storm’s timing.

Had she heard the rumble of thunder before leaving home, she would have reconsidered attempting the trip. The sound of thunder terrified her, and the fear of being struck by lightning was always at the forefront of her mind. As a younger child, she had listened attentively to family elders and Auntie Amina’s stories about lightning strikes—tales of lightning chasing relatives, striking the unlucky ones in broad daylight.

Khadijah’s sandals slapped against the dusty, dampening ground as she hurried through the market, now almost deserted as vendors rushed past her, carrying their goods. The air was thick with a metallic smell, heightening her sense of urgency. The once-familiar market road now felt overwhelming, each corner a reminder of the distance she still had to cover.

Another flash of lightning briefly illuminated the path ahead. Khadijah’s grip on the platter tightened, her fingers brushing against the smooth, cool skin of the oranges.

As she hurried out of the marketplace and onto the main town road, the rain began to fall in earnest, each drop sending a shiver through her as it soaked into her lapa dress. Despite the rain, she kept the platter steady, her thoughts focused solely on reaching Farid’s house before the storm unleashed its full fury.

Cars sped by, splashing through puddles and sending sprays of water into the air, but Khadijah paid no mind. The rumble of engines and the hiss of tires on the wet road faded into the background as rain soaked into her sandals, turning each step into a slippery struggle. With each step, she struggled for traction, the sandals’ soles slipping against the wet ground. She reminded herself repeatedly to stay steady: her gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. Dropping the oranges now would be disastrous.

The storm intensified, rain falling in heavy sheets that clung to her skin and blurred her vision. She stumbled once, her right foot nearly sliding off her sandal, but she caught herself, refusing to let the storm slow her down. Determined to reach her destination, she hardly regarded the white car tailing alongside her.

The rain-lashed window descended, and a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache craned his neck out. “You, girl!” he hollered, his voice a blunt instrument against the rain’s roar. Beside him, another man punctuated the shout with a sharp whistle, its pitch cutting through the downpour. They waved insistently, trying to get her attention.

But Khadijah remained oblivious. Her world had narrowed to the distance between her and Farid’s house, every step a battle against the storm. The car continued to pace her, the men’s shouts mingling with the rain and distant thunder. “Girl!” the driver called again, but Khadijah pressed on, her eyes locked on the faint outline of Farid’s neighborhood emerging through the mist.

Her heart leaped at the sight, a flicker of joy warming through the exhaustion and wetness. She was almost there.

The white car suddenly sped up, tires splashing through a puddle as it surged ahead of Khadijah. With a sharp swerve, it cut in front of her, blocking her path. Startled, Khadijah came to a sudden stop, her heart pounding in her chest. The rain beat down relentlessly, but now her attention was fully on the car.

The passenger window rolled down, and a man with a weathered face leaned out, whistling sharply to get her attention. His skin was rough, deeply etched with lines, and his bloodshot eyes stared ahead, unfocused, as if sleep had evaded him for years. Beads of sweat, mixing with the rain, traced paths down his bare scalp and dripped from his brow.

As Khadijah approached, the stale stench of cigarettes and alcohol hit her. The man rubbed his upper lip against his nose, avoiding eye contact despite having flagged her down. His gaze remained fixed on the road, uninterested in her presence.

It was the driver who finally leaned over, chuckling. “You, girl, you’re hard to get attention from,” he said. “What are you doing in this rain?”

In contrast to his disheveled companion, the driver exhibited impeccable grooming. His dark brown skin was smooth and unmarked by age, and a precisely trimmed mustache arched above his upper lip, ending just before the corners of his mouth. Well-trimmed sideburns framed his jawline, meeting the crisp edges of his jet-black Afro. He wore a neatly pressed red turtleneck beneath an unbuttoned black leather jacket, both untouched by the elements, as if he had stepped out of a fashion magazine. His smile flashed, bright and composed.

Khadijah stood there, dripping wet and clutching her platter of oranges. Her eyes flicked between the two men, wary and impatient. She had no time for idle chatter or questions.

“How much for all the oranges?” the driver asked, sensing her impatience.

“No selling,” Khadijah said firmly.

The disheveled passenger blinked in disbelief. “No selling? You get a plate of orange on ya head, eh. How come no selling? Just walking in the street, o?”

His bloodshot eyes bore into her, but Khadijah did not look into them. She was too focused on suppressing the wave of nausea brought on by the reek of alcohol and cigarettes on the man’s breath.

“Shut up, you damn fool,” the driver said, dismissing his companion with a wave of hand. “This is the only food we will find in this storm. No one is selling.”

Turning back to Khadijah, the driver flashed his signature bright smile, trying a different approach. “Sweetheart, please. We’re just passing through and have a long drive in front of us. We need something to eat. Can you sell us the oranges? For God’s sake?”

Just as Khadijah opened her mouth to respond to the driver, her tone softer but her words still firm, a sudden gust of wind roared through the road. It nearly knocked her off her feet, and the platter of oranges wobbled precariously on her head. She instinctively extended her arms out for balance, her fingers tightening around the edges of the platter as the wind threatened to send her precious cargo crashing to the ground.

Around her, the storm began to unleash its full fury. The wind howled, whipping through the town with a ferocity that rattled the houses, empty market stalls, and sent loose debris flying. Nearby trees bent under the force, their branches creaking and snapping, some of them crashing down onto the road. The rain fell in a relentless curtain, blurring the world around her. Thunder boomed overhead, seemingly shaking the sky.

Khadijah managed to steady herself, regaining her balance with the effort, but her heart was pounding even harder now. She looked toward Farid’s house, just a short distance away. It was so close—just a few steps more, and she would be there. But even she had to admit that reaching it now, amid this violent storm, was nearly impossible. The wind would push against her with every step as the road ahead seemed treacherous, littered with fallen branches and drenched in water.

She let out a heavy breath, shoulders sagging with the weight of dilemma, and finally turning back to her only customers for the day. The driver, sensing an opportunity, looked at her with pleading eyes. “Sweetheart, please,” he said, his voice almost drowned out by the storm. He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a couple of crisp bills, holding them out through the passenger’s window. “I’ll pay you two times what you selling.”

Khadijah hesitated, only for a moment, before taking the money from his outstretched hand. The bills clung to her fingers as she quickly tucked them away from the ongoing downpour. 

“Are we okay now?” the driver asked.

She nodded, albeit reluctantly. Her reunion with Farid, along with the gift of bright, sweet oranges, would have to wait for another day. She knew it was the safer choice, but it still felt like a letdown.

Carefully, she handed her platter of oranges to the driver’s companion. The disheveled man greedily scooped up the oranges, gathering them into his shirt, which he had pulled up to form a makeshift basket. He clutched them close, as if afraid the storm might snatch them away.

With her platter now empty, Khadijah took a deep breath, casting one last glance at Farid’s house through the curtain of rain. Then, with her head hung low, she turned and began to trudge home.

Just as she was about to take her second step, a shout came from the car. “You want a lift home, sweetheart?”

“No!” the driver’s companion shrieked before Khadijah could answer. He was nearly finished devouring an orange and almost choked trying to get the words out. “Don’t bring that dirty girl in our car. Dirty country children, they all disease!”

“Shut up, fool,” the driver said. He pointed around the empty road, deserted in the raging storm. “Have a heart, for God’s sake. You’re going to let this poor little girl walk home by herself?”

“I don’t care. That’s not my child. We need to get out of this damn town.”

“Heartless bastard,” the driver muttered under his breath. He turned back to Khadijah, his voice softening. “Sweetheart, do you live far from here?”

Khadijah shook her head.

“Where you live?”

Khadijah began to describe her home, particularly its location down a small hill with a nearby dusty red road and a large convenience store standing out among the cluster of houses. She provided specific details, hoping to give them a good idea of the location, but as she spoke, the driver and his companion exchanged confused glances.

“That’s every country house in every town,” the driver’s companion said through gritted teeth.

“Sweetheart,” the driver said with a patient smile. “Can you show us the way?”

Khadijah nodded.

“Good,” the driver replied, reaching over his companion to open the door. “Come in.”

As Khadijah climbed into the backseat, sliding in with her empty platter on her lap, she could hear the driver’s companion grumbling under his breath. “Dirty girl. We all going to get sick. Look at her eyes—she sick like a dog. We lucky if we get fresh cold.”

“My man!” the driver snapped, his voice shattering his companion’s grumbling. Khadijah noticed the muttering continued, but now in hushed tones, barely more than a whisper. The driver shot his companion a stern, unyielding glare, and the man finally fell silent, turning his attention back to devouring the oranges.

The driver’s expression relaxed as he turned to Khadijah, offering a reassuring smile along with an orange. “N’mind him, sweetheart. Which way is your house?”

Khadijah accepted the orange and pointed behind her, indicating the direction she had come from. The driver nodded and started the engine. With a smooth turn, he guided the car around, heading in the direction Khadijah had shown.

They hadn’t driven far—just a few yards—when the skies unleashed a torrential deluge, as if the heavens themselves had split open. The rain hammered down on the car, smashing against the roof and windows with an implacable force. The windshield wipers flailed desperately, swiping back and forth at top speed, but the sheets of water pouring down made it nearly impossible to see the road ahead.

“Shit, I can’t see a damn thing,” the driver said, leaning forward, squinting through the watery haze. His knuckles tightened as he gripped the steering wheel. Despite his efforts, the rain only grew heavier, turning the world outside into a swirling, indistinct mass of gray.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, the driver eased off the gas and guided the car to the side of the road. The tires crunched against the muddy gravel, and the car came to a stop: the rain continuing to pummel it from all sides. Inside, the saturated smell of dampness and the sour scent of oranges filled up the remaining space.

Khadijah peeled the orange, her fingers fumbling with the thick skin as her body trembled uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered so hard she could barely hold on to the fruit. The cold from the downpour had seeped into her bones, making her movements shaky. As she struggled to peel the orange, a loud sneeze burst from her lips despite her efforts to suppress it. “AA AAchoo!”

She braced herself, expecting the driver’s companion to erupt in a hysterical fit. “You see, I told you she diseease!” But to her surprise, he remained silent, not even flinching her way. He continued greedily chomping on the oranges. The sound of his teeth tearing into the flesh of the oranges filled the small space, but otherwise, he was oblivious to her.

Just then, Khadijah felt a wave of warm air wrap around her like the plush blanket from her parents’ room: a comforting warmth that eased the trembling in her limbs and quieted the chattering of her teeth. She blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden change.

“Better, sweetheart?” the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

Khadijah nodded, still unsure what he had done to cause the warmth that now surrounded her. She sank back into the seat, feeling the tension drain from her body. Slowly, she resumed peeling the orange, this time with steadier hands. The moment she took a bite, the sweet, familiar taste flooded her mouth. It was as if she had forgotten how good her oranges tasted, and before she knew it, she was eating greedily, just like the driver’s companion. The sweetness made her feet jiggle up and down.

With the orange finished, Khadijah reclined further into the backseat, closing her eyes for a moment and smiling to herself: the warmth and the comfort lulling her into a brief, contented peace.

“You like the car, eh?” A voice interrupted, pulling her back to the present. She opened her eyes to see the driver watching her through the rearview mirror.

“You sitting in a Volkswagen, sweetheart. This is a big shot’s car,” he said with a hint of pride in his voice.

But Khadijah didn’t need the driver to tell her. She had known the moment the white 1970 Volkswagen Beetle cut in front of her, long before the driver’s companion whistled for her attention. That car was a familiar sight in town, gliding through in various colors, always with someone important at the wheel or in the backseat. The driver was right—it was a “big shot’s car.” Only the town’s elites own cars like this, or the sleek Mercedes W108s. Khadijah had seen these cars chauffeuring successful businessmen, the kind of men whose names everyone knew, the kind who made deals that shaped the town.

The white Volkswagen had always been the car of her dreams. Whenever Khadijah spotted one on the road, her mind would drift. She imagined herself behind the wheel, wearing a flowing white dress, her hair loose and wild in the wind as she cruised around. In her daydreams, heads turned wherever she went, fingers pointed, and whispers followed her every move. She was no longer the poor girl selling oranges to get by; she was the talk of the town, a rich and successful businesswoman. The girl who had once lived in a cramped shack with a family of 9 was now the one to watch—a true big shot.

“Damn, this rain, like Noah’s flood,” the driver grumbled, turning on again and cranking the windshield wipers to top speed. It was no use, as the wipers fought like a tiny boat against a tidal wave, their frantic sweeps barely making a dent in the wall of water. Visibility was completely nonexistent, the road ahead dissolving into a smear of dark shapes. Gritting his teeth in irritation, the driver finally turned off the windshield wipers, putting them out of their misery. “Gimme some more orange, Stephen. Will be here long.” 

Khadijah, however, didn’t mind the delay. She was in another world as she settled into the backseat, stretching her arms out and letting her feet dangle. The space and comfort were a far cry from her usual reality. This must be what it meant to be a rich big shot. Normally, when she rode in a car, it was some crowded sedan or truck posing as a taxi, packed with far too many passengers. West African taxis in the countryside weren’t for the faint of heart or the claustrophobic. But here, in this Volkswagen, she felt a luxurious freedom she had only dreamed of.

As she imagined the car pulling into her neighborhood, a smile spread across her face. She pictured the white Volkswagen gliding to a stop, drawing the attention of everyone—neighbors pausing mid-conversation, children stopping their games, all eyes on the big shot’s car. But it was the thought of her brother, Aliyu, that brought the widest smile. Aliyu, who always teased her about her dreams of driving a Volkswagen, would be speechless. She could already see his eyes and mouth widening as he saw her being chauffeured home by these two men. His usual jests would vanish, replaced by a grudging respect. This moment would be like a glimpse into the future—a preview of the success she was sure would come. She could almost hear him now, stammering as he realized that his little sister’s dreams weren’t so far-fetched after all.

Khadijah closed her eyes, the palpable scene playing out like a movie in her mind. She could feel the car’s soft vinyl seats beneath her and see the surprise on her neighbors and family’s faces. The thought further warmed her entire body. As the car hummed and the rain drummed, her eyelids grew heavier. The daydream blurred, her mind drifting until she finally slipped into a deep slumber, the image of her triumphant return still lingering in her thoughts.

To Be Continued…

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Share Josephine Dean

“Amina, what am I going to do with this girl? She can’t hear.”

Khadijah lay on the mattress bed, drenched in sweat from a high fever. Her father’s voice reached her through the haze of pain and exhaustion. The sunlight streamed into the room, a blur through her nearly closed eyelids. Each attempt to force the muscles to open them felt like sharp knives stabbing at her eyes. Even though her vision was obscured, she maintained a sharp hearing. Her father’s and aunt’s voices were clear as the crowing of roosters in the morning.

They stood by the front door, their words mixing with the cacophony of daily life filtering in from outside. Car horns blared, neighborhood children’s laughter and screams reverberated as they played, occasionally punctuated by a mother’s scolding. 

Khadijah lay there, unable to move, each sound from the open door amplifying her awareness. The world was continuing its noisy routine, indifferent to her suffering. She longed to be out there, back in her element as a street vendor, engaging with her customers and chatting with neighbors, relatives, and passersby.

“I’ve tried everything, even sending her to the village. Nothing works,” Khadijah’s father said, his voice heavy with weariness. She could sense his frustration. “It’s her eyes, the problem. I have to take it from her. It’s only the way she’ll survive in this world.”

“Brother, don’t worry so much.” Khadijah could hear the soft voice of her Auntie Amina, her favorite aunt. Her voice, with its quiet assurance, caused her father to exhale for a brief moment. “Her eyes are a secret gift from God. How do you know God did not give them to her to survive in this world?”

“Yes, but she’s supposed to keep her mouth shut,” Khadijah’s father said, his voice gruff and tense. “What’s the use of a secret if everyone has to know about it? I only wish she was a boy. Then I can put some sense into her.”

“You still can, Brother,” Auntie Amina said, tranquil as ever. “You just need to tell her and explain to her. Teach he—”

“No. She’s a girl. I won’t waste my time. I’m taking it. It’s the only way.”

Khadijah heard their conversation fading in and out. She closed her eyes tight. The headache was starting, wrapping around her tiny skull like a constrictor and squeezing. Each squeeze was stronger than the last, until the only way to manage the pain was to keep her eyes shut and tune out the conversation and noise around her. 

In the dark abyss inside her head, Khadijah reflected on her father’s words. He was right about one thing, whether she wanted to admit it. If she had kept her mouth shut, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Until now, she had considered her mouth her greatest strength, more so than her eyes. She never thought of her eyes as a strength; they were just there, something she couldn’t control or control what they set their sights on. But her mouth? That was her power. Through it, she connected with others, asked questions, and learned about things she would never have discovered in her ultra-conservative and chauvinistic home.

Still, she had to admit that a mouth like hers could be her greatest strength and her potential undoing. It was a bitter truth to swallow, especially in the wake of her encounter with the palm oil saleswoman.

The exact details of the encounter were elusive, lost in the fog of her fever and the indistinct nature of dreams. 

There was no recollection of the precise day or time, but Khadijah clearly recalled accompanying her Auntie Amina to the market to buy palm oil for cooking dry rice. As they wove through the bustling stalls and tables, the scent of fresh produce and spices filled the air, mingling with the dusty aroma of the earth beneath their feet.

Before that day, nightmares had plagued her—vivid, unsettling flashes of imagery that lingered in her mind. A middle-aged woman with a plump figure, wrapped in a vibrant headscarf that framed her round, mahogany face. Her lips blackened, and her eyes were intense, like embers smoldering in the depths of a fire. Khadijah would see her in fragmented scenes, always stirring a large, worn clay pot placed on hot coals. The woman’s movements were methodical, her hand gripping a wooden spoon with practiced ease.

She would lift the spoon, filled with boiling liquid, and pour it into a dark blue plastic bottle. The liquid sizzled and bubbled as it filled the bottle to the brim. Next to the woman lay a baby, wrapped tightly in a green and yellow lapa. The infant struggled to cry, but its voice was barely audible, a faint whimper drowned out by the bubbling liquid and the woman’s murmured words. “I got mi share,” the woman repeated excitedly.

These dreams had unsettled Khadijah, leaving her with a gnawing sense of dread. The fragmented imagery haunted her, like pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite assemble. The baby’s feeble cries echoed in her mind, and the woman’s blackened lips moved with a sinister purpose.

On the day Khadijah accompanied Auntie Amina to the market, the nightmares were still fresh. 

As the pair approached the palm oil vendors, a row of sellers called out for attention, each extolling the virtues of their product. “The redder the palm oil, the better it is. Not too thick and watery. That’s what makes the rice taste good,” Auntie Amina advised, as they turned the corner.

Auntie Amina carefully examined the vendors’ offerings. Khadijah followed suit, scrutinizing each bottle of palm oil until her eyes landed on one vendor’s stall. The oil was the perfect balance of red, thick, and slightly watery—exactly as her aunt had described.

Holding this perfect palm oil in a long, dark blue plastic bottle was a plump middle-aged woman with blackened lips and a head wrapped in a bright multicolored scarf. Déjà vu washed over Khadijah. The large clay pot and the row of dark blue plastic bottles at the stall triggered her memory, causing her heart to race. Her nightmares began to materialize before her eyes. Those dark brown eyes of hers seemed to take control, directing Khadijah’s attention to the dark blue plastic bottle the woman was holding up and focusing keenly on its content within. The perfect palm oil was not what it appeared, and Khadijah’s stomach turned into a hard, cramped knot.

She tried to clutch her aunt’s hand, but Auntie Amina was already approaching the vendor. The palm oil saleswoman smiled, her blackened lips curling, sending a shiver down Khadijah’s back. As Auntie Amina interacted with the woman, Khadijah’s eyes scoured the stall for any sign of a baby or a green and yellow lapa, but found nothing.

“I only want half this bottle,” Auntie Amina said, picking up one of the dark blue plastic bottles. “Can you give me?”

The palm oil saleswoman nodded and pulled out an empty dark blue plastic bottle. As she poured the liquid, Khadijah’s breath quickened as her eyes narrowed. The crimson liquid had a deep, velvety sheen, lingering and reluctant to flow, each droplet hanging heavy before surrendering to gravity. A few droplets spilled onto the wooden table, leaving vivid, unyielding stains.

Khadijah ran to her aunt. “Aunty, aunty,” she said frantically, tugging on Auntie Amina’s sleeve.

“Wait, child, let me pay first,” Auntie Amina said, pulling money from a leather drawstring pouch as the saleswoman finished pouring and capping the bottle.

Khadijah watched helplessly as her aunt was about to hand over the bills. Just as the saleswoman reached out, she blurted out her tribal dialect, loud and cutting through the air.

Upon hearing, Auntie Amina swiftly retracted the money. She fully understood what her niece had said; such words from their mother tongue were not to be spoken lightly. Unlike Khadijah’s father, her own cousin, Amina valued the girl’s intuition and insights. She knew not to dismiss them lightly.

“Oh, I just forgot something to buy first,” Auntie Amina said, quickly putting the money back into her pouch. “We’ll come back after.”

With half a bottle of palm oil in one hand and the other hand extended, the saleswoman glanced from Khadijah to Auntie Amina, her expression directed at the latter with confusion.

“Sure? The bottle is ready for you.”

“Yes, yes,” Auntie Amina said hurriedly. “Keep the bottle. We coming back.”

The palm oil saleswoman furrowed her brows at Auntie Amina. “What she saying to you?”

Auntie Amina’s voice was unwavering as she met the saleswoman’s gaze head-on. “She said nothing. We are coming back.”

The saleswoman’s gaze then shifted to Khadijah. A chilling intensity swept over her expression, echoing the unsettling dreams that had haunted Khadijah—the embers of a fire smoldering in her depths. Khadijah felt a shiver colder than before, but she kept her gaze steady, meeting the woman’s unsettling stare.

Sensing Khadijah’s unease, Auntie Amina took her hand and steered her briskly away from the stall. The bustling market, a symphony of voices and movement, provided a welcome distraction from the unsettling encounter. Once they were a safe distance away, Auntie Amina paused, her grip tightening slightly on Khadijah’s hand. “Why did you speak like that?” she asked, her voice soft but firm.

Khadijah hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly but decisively. “She’s selling blood.”

Auntie Amina nodded, giving a wry smile. She trusted her niece and didn’t press further. “Come, child, let’s go home. Away from here.”

Auntie Amina continued leading Khadijah through the market, navigating through the familiar chaos with a sense of urgency. As they hurried away, Khadijah couldn’t resist stealing another glance back. Her gaze locked with the saleswoman’s once more—a haunting aura emanated from those eyes, dark and penetrating.

Khadijah quickly turned away, her heart hammering in her chest. She clung tightly to Auntie Amina’s hand, silently grateful for her aunt’s protective presence as they exited the market area and headed home.

Upon returning home, the pair found Khadijah’s father waiting by the front door, arms crossed with a stern facial expression. It appeared he already knew about their encounter.

Immediately, he directed a line of questioning at Khadijah. “What you see this time? You see something, eh? Hard head girl, can’t close your mouth.”

Khadijah did not answer him. She bent her head and walked past him into the house, her steps quick and subdued.

“Answer me, girl,” her father demanded, turning to follow her.

“Brother, please,” Auntie Amina said, stepping in front of her cousin and placing a hand on his arm. “Let the child go. She already been through enough in one day.”

Khadijah’s father exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Unlike other relatives, Auntie Amina had the most success calming him down and making him reconsider. He was a stubborn and prideful man, being the first grandchild and grandson out of his grandfather’s forty-two children. Rarely did he set his mind on something and then drop it.

“Brother, please,” Auntie Amina said, pleading. “Let the child rest.”

Khadijah’s father massaged his glabrous chin, eyes lingering on the doorway through which his daughter had disappeared. “Alright. But we need to talk further. I can’t have her running around, opening her mouth and causing trouble.”

“We will,” Auntie Amina said reassuringly. “But for now, let her be.”

Honoring his promise and heeding Auntie Amina’s pleas, Khadijah’s father refrained from pursuing the matter further. Dinner that night was a somber affair, the silence punctuated only by the heavy sighs of her father. Khadijah kept her head bowed, avoiding his gaze, but the weight of his displeasure was palpable in the air.

Normally, after dinner, she and Auntie Amina would sit outside under the blanket of stars, sharing stories and jokes. Khadijah would laugh loudly, asking her aunt countless questions. She cherished these moments, feeling the closest to Auntie Amina, who she viewed as the only role model worth imitating in their family and extended family. Auntie Amina never considered her a nuisance and always answered all her questions, patiently.

But on this night, Khadijah didn’t dare venture out for their usual nighttime stories. Her father was in no mood for such entertainment, as the last thing he wanted to hear was her voice or laughter. Nearing the end of dinner, Khadijah met her aunt’s kind eyes and could read the woman’s mind: “Sorry, child. Your Baba is very angry. Let’s wait till tomorrow when he relaxes.”

Khadijah was the first to head to bed that night, hoping to escape her father’s ire. But she soon regretted this decision. 

The moment her eyes closed, she began tossing and turning, desperately trying to wake up. She had forgotten about her recurring nightmare, which returned that night, more profound and menacing than ever before.

The tension with her father had caused her to forget her pre-sleep routine, a practice she had developed to deter nightmares. This routine involved steeling her mind and telling herself it was all a dream and that she could wake up anytime. It had worked for her the previous nights, allowing her to see only flashes of the nightmare. But tonight, she had neglected this crucial practice.

As Khadijah drifted into an uneasy sleep, the nightmare quickly enveloped her.

Instantly, she knew she was dreaming. The market was desolate in the middle of the day, the sky a gloomy gray. Khadijah surveyed the empty stalls and listened attentively: no lively chatter, no market vendors shouting, no customers haggling. Not even a single bird’s chirping could be heard. 

Yet, there was one familiar sound that sent chills down her spine—the sound of boiling liquid.

Khadijah’s gaze snapped toward the sound, an icy fist of fear clenching her heart. She desperately tried to remember her routine, to tell herself it was all a dream, even pinching herself to wake up. But it was already too late. Her body was paralyzed, and her mind was engulfed. The nightmare was in full control.

Her eyes became fixated on a market stall that seemed to emerge from the shadows. There on the table, a large clay pot sat atop hot coals, the liquid inside boiling fiercely. A wooden spoon rested inside the pot, stirring slowly as if by an unseen hand.

The palm oil saleswoman moved with an unsettling grace around the boiling pot, her actions illuminated by its flickering flames. She was packing an old, battered train case, its black leather cracked and peeling, the metal clasps rusted and barely clinging to their duty. The once-luxurious fabric lining inside was now frayed and stained, a silent witness to countless journeys and forgotten memories.

As the woman packed the train case, she hummed a melody, her voice low and rhythmic. “I got mi share. Mi friends happy,” she repeated, her words echoing in the desolate market.

Facing Khadijah, a naked baby lay on a red and green lapa on the floor, its tiny body barely moving.

“You dey come to see me again, girl,” the woman said, her smile twisted as she took the wooden spoon into the boiling pot and tasted the liquid. Khadijah watched with her mouth agape as some of the liquid spilled from the woman’s blackened lips, dripping from her chin. The liquid had a deep maroon color, unmistakably blood.

Laying eyes on the blood, Khadijah felt her stomach churn violently, followed by a surge of overwhelming nausea. Her throat tightened, and a sour taste filled her mouth. She felt queasy, her body betraying her with the urge to vomit. The smell of the boiling liquid mixed with the woman’s humming created a suffocating atmosphere that made her head spin. No matter how much she tried to fight it, she could not move or attempt to run away. She felt completely and utterly helpless, a prisoner of her own body and mind.

Desperately, Khadijah tried to focus on something else, anything else, but her eyes kept drifting back to the naked baby on the lapa, its tiny chest rising and falling with agonizing slowness. Every few seconds, the baby’s body would shudder with effort, its little fists clenched tightly, fingers curled inward as if grasping for air.

“Come ya, girl. You wan see how I make mi oil, eh?” a voice rang out.

Khadijah’s eyes darted back to the palm oil saleswoman, who maintained her twisted smile with teeth stained with red. The woman’s smoldering eyes seemed to strike Khadijah’s soul like an assegai.  

“Come ya, girl,” the woman said.

Khadijah did not move. For once, she was glad her body could not move and was at a distance from the woman.

However, when the woman spoke again, “Come,” Khadijah instantly felt her body jerked forward as if by an invisible force. She was now face-to-face with the palm oil saleswoman, the twisted, bloody smile and burning eyes up close and personal. Khadijah attempted to look away, but the instant her eyes shifted, she regretted it. Her gaze fell upon the baby lying beside the woman, sprawled on the red and green lapa on the dusty, hard floor.

The baby’s skin was an unnatural dark blue, clammy and cold-looking, a stark contrast to the vibrant fabric beneath it. Its tiny mouth hung open, struggling for breath, chest heaving with painful, labored movements. The most distinct sight, though, was its hands and feet. Where fingers and toes should have been, there were only raw, stumpy nubs, as if they had been cruelly taken away.

The sight made all the hairs on Khadijah’s body stand on end. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The air felt thick, choking, as the saleswoman’s eyes bore into her.

“Aah, no mind am,” the woman said nonchalantly. “That pikin no go live.” She lifted the wooden spoon again, letting the maroon liquid drip slowly back into the boiling pot, each drop echoing in Khadijah’s mind like a foreboding countdown.

Khadijah’s stomach continued churning as she felt the bile rising in her throat. Her legs trembled, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the sight before her. The palm oil saleswoman’s humming filled the air, mingling with the sound of the boiling liquid, creating a nightmarish symphony that was consuming her entirely.

The woman leaned in closer, dark liquid still dripping from her chin, her eyes locking onto Khadijah’s with an unholy gleam. “You no can escape, girl. You must know the secrets of mi oil.” She pointed to the boiling pot, and Khadijah’s eyes followed. Floating amidst the boiling and thick maroon liquid were several tiny fingers and toes.

Khadijah’s mind screamed for her to wake up, to break free, but her body remained frozen, trapped in the nightmare’s relentless grip. 

“You no fit escape, girl.” the woman repeated, as if inside Khadijah’s head. “Now, na your turn. Bring mi hands.”

“No! Please!” Khadijah’s silent cry was met with a dismissive sigh from the woman. “Hands,” she commanded, and Khadijah’s hands were violently wrenched forward, palms open.

“Hmm,” the woman said, examining Khadijah’s hands closely. “Ugly hands. Man hands. You dey work to death, pikin.” She seized Khadijah’s wrists, her cold, rough touch causing Khadijah to wince in pain. “Forget your hands!” The woman’s grip tightened, and Khadijah felt a warm liquid running down her legs, a fleeting reprieve.

“Look mi eyes, girl,” the woman said, her face so close that Khadijah could smell her fetid breath. “I want your eyes.” With a raucous cackle, she spat a mouthful of liquid into Khadijah’s eyes. The searing pain made Khadijah recoil, screaming in agony. A pain that felt akin to being stabbed in the eyes with countless needles, each one scorching her corneas and sending excruciating stings through her skull.

Khadijah opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. She couldn’t open them completely, but the improvement from the beginning of her illness was noticeable. The stabbing pain, though still present, was now manageable.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against a soft fabric beneath her. It was unlike the rough, coiled mattress she usually shared with her siblings. As her hand wandered further, it encountered a warm, snoring body. She was lying in her parents’ bed, nestled next to her mother. Khadijah was sure of it. Her parent’s bed, plush and comfortable, felt like lying on a cloud—a stark contrast to her usual sleeping arrangement.

Memories began to surface. The recall of her father lifting her from the crowded mattress she shared with her siblings and placing her between him and her mother to monitor her condition. He had relayed to Auntie Amina that he himself would take care of her, refusing the suggestion of taking his daughter to the hospital or notifying a doctor.

Khadijah’s arms ached as she touched them, a soreness that brought back the harrowing nights under her father’s care. Each night, he would mutter “Bismillah” before pouring what felt like cold water on her face. Upon touching flesh, the water turned into an unbearable torment as soon as it reached her eyes, like someone trying to tear them from their sockets. She would scream and thrash, desperate to claw the liquid away.

“Hold her hands! Do not let her touch!” her father would bellow, and her mother would comply, restraining Khadijah as she writhed in agony.

This had been the tenth night of the ritual. Every night, Khadijah’s father poured the water, and her mother held her down. Her screams and cries echoed through the house, penetrating the stillness of the night.

Auntie Amina, in particular, found the cries unbearable. On the seventh night, unable to take it any longer, she barged into her cousin’s room and confronted him. “Why must you do this to her? Why cause her such suffering?”

His response was curt. “If I don’t do this, she will never see again.”

Nestled in the comforting softness of her parents’ bed, Khadijah’s senses were drawn to a gentle flicker of candlelight at its foot. The rhythmic clinking of prayer beads, a familiar and soothing sound, filled the quiet room. Her father was immersed in his nightly devotions.

Each bead slipping through his fingers resonated like a delicate wind chime, creating a hypnotic rhythm that eased the throb in her eyes. The dancing shadows cast by the candlelight painted a tapestry of serenity on the walls, further lulling her senses.

As the rhythmic prayer continued, a wave of tranquility washed over her, replacing the persistent ache with a sense of peace. The gentle clinking became a lullaby, each bead a note guiding her towards slumber. Her eyelids grew heavy, and with a sigh, she surrendered to the darkness, the comforting sounds of her father’s prayers echoing in her dreams.

In the weeks that followed, Khadijah’s condition steadily improved. Each day, her eyesight became clearer, and the pain in her eyelids lessened, enabling her to gradually open them wider. The stabbing agony that once tormented her became a distant memory. Her father’s ritual continued, but the cold water now brought relief instead of pain.

A month passed, and she no longer screamed or thrashed as the water touched her face. The initial shock of the cool liquid gave way to a soothing sensation. Sometimes, it even tickled her skin, causing her to giggle softly. Her mother no longer had to hold her down; instead, she watched with a mixture of relief and amazement as her third born endured the nightly ritual with calm acceptance.

Ten days later, the pain had finally subsided, and Khadijah could blink open her eyes without discomfort. With a pang of regret, she left her parents' bed and returned to the lumpy mattress shared with her siblings. The contrast was jarring: the plush comfort of her parents’ bed was now a distant memory, replaced by the harsh reality of the familiar, cramped space and its unforgiving coils. Yet, amidst the discomfort, a sense of normalcy slowly seeped back in.

Life slowly began to regain its familiar cadence. Khadijah’s vibrant personality reawakened, her laughter and chatter once again filling the spaces between the houses. She returned to her familiar post as a street vendor, her infectious smile greeting customers who were elated to see her back on her feet, back in her element.

No one was more elated to see Khadijah recover than Auntie Amina. Yet, that elation was quickly tempered the first time she saw her niece emerge from bedrest. While Khadijah’s newfound strength brought a smile to Auntie Amina’s face, it quickly faded as she noticed her niece’s red and bloodshot scleras: a permanent scarring and the cost of her recovery.

Her cousin had followed through on his promise, taking away his daughter’s eyes.

This filled Auntie Amina with a quiet rage as she railed inwardly at him for taking away “a secret gift from God.” She wished her cousin was like her own late father—loving, kind, and valuing daughters as much as sons. Khadijah was a smart girl, and it seemed that Auntie Amina was the only one in her cousin’s household who knew it. Had Khadijah been a daughter of her late father, the girl would have excelled and had a promising future. This Auntie Amina was certain of.

Still, Auntie Amina dared not voice her grievances to her cousin. He was the only family member who had taken her in when she had nothing. How ungrateful would it be for her to criticize him for how he was raising his children? She was sure his patience with her was wearing thin, especially since she had barged on him that night about how he was treating her niece. If he lost patience and kicked her out, she had nowhere else to go.

Thus, Auntie Amina resolved to keep her thoughts to herself. She decided it was not her place to lecture her cousin on how to raise his own children, no matter how much she loved his bright daughter.

Auntie Amina's quiet rage simmered, fueled by Khadijah's whispered confessions of nightmares haunted by the palm oil saleswoman. The vivid descriptions, the chilling details, made Amina bite back a scream, the taste of blood a testament to her fury. A fierce protectiveness ignited within her, and she vowed to confront the woman who tormented her niece.

Saturday, the market’s busiest day, would be her stage. Under the watchful eyes of the entire town, she would expose the woman for the witch she was, preying on innocent children. Amina could already picture the scene: herself, a righteous fury in her voice, pointing an accusing finger, the woman’s face crumbling under the weight of public shame.

Come Saturday, Auntie Amina rose before dawn, a steely resolve in her stride as she entered the teeming market. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk, scanned the countless stalls, seeking the palm oil vendors. However, as she reached their usual area, the saleswoman was nowhere to be found. Confused and resolute, she scoured the entire market, even the town square, but the woman was absent.

She began inquiring after the saleswoman, her questions met with puzzled shakes of the head. No one had seen her. Days bled into weeks, Amina’s frustration mounting with each passing day. The woman seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Still, Auntie Amina persisted, returning to the market day after day, her inquiries a relentless refrain. But years turned, and the woman never reappeared. Her search became less fervent, a quiet vigilance replacing the initial urgency. The palm oil saleswoman would never appear, and she would never find her.

On that initial Saturday, after searching nearly the entire day and questioning vendors and market attendees, Auntie Amina returned to the area of the palm oil vendors. The stall once commanded by the palm oil saleswoman was now occupied by a skinny man with a light complexion. The man smiled at her, revealing rows of discolored and decaying teeth. She observed him keenly, wondering if the palm oil saleswoman might be in disguise or had shape-shifted into this undernourished young man to hide her true form. 

But she quickly dismissed the thought, frowning as the man held up a bottle of palm oil enticingly. The liquid inside was a peculiar shade of orange, too pale. Just an inexperienced vendor hoping to make a quick buck—nothing sinister.

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Khadijah arrived home earlier than usual, the sun still high in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty streets. It was just past noon, a stark contrast to her typical sundown returns. Two years had passed since she and Jaye returned from her grandmother's village, reuniting with her father and the rest of the family in their rural town. And two years since she had disappointed her father, who had hoped her grandmother would tame her spirited nature.

Within a week of her return, she was back to her old talkative self, much to her father's dismay. Determined to be useful and driven by curiosity, she immersed herself in the life of a street vendor. A middle-aged neighbor with three children and over two decades of vending experience took her under her wing. This kind woman, Khadijah’s first and sole investor, provided the initial goods for her budding business: five oranges.

With minimal guidance but fierce determination, Khadijah transformed those five oranges into the cornerstone of a thriving small business. Her success stemmed from her persistence and outgoing personality: a friendly but tenacious little saleswoman.

Not to mention, she set herself apart from other vendors by peeling the oranges in advance—a clever trick Salmana had taught her—and meticulously cleaning them. This extra effort made the oranges gleam, attracting customers who valued the convenience of buying and enjoying a fresh, ready-to-eat snack.

Her hard work paid off. She built a loyal customer base and even started to earn enough to provide for herself and her family, including Jaye, her older brother Aliyu, her infant brother, a younger sister, and her parents.

As Khadijah entered their humble home, the aroma of dinner greeted her. The small, two-room quarters buzzed with the usual activity. Her infant brother crawled on the floor while the lively chatter and laughter of Jaye and her younger sister filled the air as they played with him. Her older brother, Aliyu, was likely out entertaining their well-off uncle with the latest knowledge he had acquired at the private Catholic school their father had somehow managed to afford. "My son," her father would always say, beaming with pride. Aliyu was his pride and joy, the only child in the family who made him grin and sing praises to his friends.

Khadijah approached her mother, who was frantically preparing dinner. It was unusual for her mother to start cooking this early without help as Khadijah was the premier cook in the family. "Why are you cooking so soon?" Khadijah asked, though what she meant was, "Why are you cooking by yourself? You know you can't cook without my help."

"Hush, child. Your father has guest. I am cooking up something for them."

Khadijah rolled her eyes at the mention of a guest. "Not another guest," she thought. Her father's "guest" usually meant someone who would crash at their already cramped place and stay for the night, a day, two days, or as long as they liked. Her father earned a reputation in their border town as the good samaritan, always offering cheap or mostly free lodging to travelers and passersby.

The guests who stayed at their place were usually poor immigrants from the neighboring country, arriving with nothing but the clothes on their backs, seeking a better life. "I know what it's like to come to a foreign place with nothing. It's the least I can do for God to bless me," her father would say whenever asked why he allowed strangers to stay with him and his family.

Khadijah sighed and joined her mother in the tiny kitchen area of their home, taking over the task of chopping vegetables with relative ease. "Do you know who it is this time?" she asked, trying to mask her irritation.

Her mother shook her head. "Your father didn't say much, just that it was someone in need."

As they worked side by side, Khadijah felt frustration brewing within her. Her father's generosity often stretched their resources thin, and the constant flow of strangers disrupted their daily life. She wished, just for once, they could have a quiet evening with no guests.

Her mother's frantic pace slowed as Khadijah took charge of the cooking, the familiar rhythm of their teamwork bringing a sense of calm. The smell of onions and spices filled the air, and for a moment, the disarray of their small home felt manageable.

“Think we'll be okay here?” Khadijah asked.

Her mother nodded, then glanced at her. “Why are you home so early?” she asked, just as Khadijah was about to walk away.

“I finished selling,” Khadijah said, pointing to her empty platter by the door. “Farid bought it all before I even hit the main street.” Farid, a successful Lebanese businessman in town, was one of her loyal customers. He always appreciated how pristine her oranges were and refused to buy from anyone else. “Anytime you have more, come to me first,” he would tell her in his thick Lebanese accent, despite having lived in their town with his family for almost fifteen years.

Khadijah's curiosity was piqued by the sight of her parents' door slightly ajar. Normally, when guests were over, her father would usher them into the room, the jewel of their small home, for conversation. But the door would always remain firmly closed. Leaving her mother tending to the kitchen, she tiptoed towards it. A peek through the crack revealed her father seated on his floor mat, a small, timeworn silver teapot and two half-filled glass cups nestled beside him.

Her father was chattering away, cracking jokes, but his guests seemed disinterested. The first guest, closest to her father and sitting on the floor mat, was an old and ragged man. His clothes hung in tattered shreds, barely covering his emaciated frame. In the stale room, his oddly shaped bald head glistened with sweat and his leathery skin bore deep creases of age. The old man chewed a kola nut slowly, his sharp, sunken eyes darting around the room but never settling on her father. His fingers, gnarled and calloused, clutched the kola nut tightly as he nodded his head, but not at her father’s words.

Next to him sat the most striking man Khadijah had ever laid eyes on. He was lanky and tall. Even seated, he towered over her father and the old man. His skin, smooth and dark as polished ebony, radiated a natural sheen akin to melted chocolate. Prominent cheekbones stressed his angular face, along with a strong, chiseled jawline and bushy eyebrows that arched above intense, deep-set eyes. Adorned in a black Kufi hat and a matching grand boubou of the highest quality, his attire surpassed even the finest garments worn by the richest men in town.

The tall man was whispering something to the old man, who nodded his head and continued to chew his kola nut. The two paid no attention to her father, who was jabbering about the town's history and what had led him to settle there with his family.

Khadijah's father gestured animatedly, his voice rising and falling with excitement. "And that's when I knew this was the place for us," he said. "This is a place where you can build a future, you know, away from the mess of the city."

The old man and the tall stranger remained engrossed in their own conversation. The old man's eyes flicked briefly to her father before returning to his companion, who continued to whisper in a voice too low for Khadijah to hear. The scene before her unfolded, and she couldn't help but feel a growing fascination with the peculiar dynamic between the pair, especially the tall stranger. What was he doing in their impoverished part of town and in their home of all places? And why was he with such a dirty and uncouth old man? Questions swirled in Khadijah’s mind, and as if reading her thoughts, the stranger abruptly stopped whispering to the old man and looked directly at her through the ajar door with piercing eyes that seemed to see right through her. He flashed a row of perfect, marble-white teeth at Khadijah, causing her to blush and the hair on the back of her neck to stand up.

“Rude girl!” the old man shouted, angrily pointing at the ajar door. Khadijah’s father stopped his conversation, initially confused by the old man’s outburst. But as his eyes followed the old man’s pointing finger to the door, his expression turned to one of fury.

“Assiatou!” Khadijah’s father yelled at the top of his lungs. “Get this girl out of here before I do something I regret!”

Khadijah's body froze, paralyzed by fear. Her father did not make empty threats. Eavesdropping was one of the seven deadly sins in their household, punishable by ten swift lashes. He would have implemented such punishment immediately if not for the presence of his guests.

Suddenly, she felt a firm grip on her hand, yanking her away from the door. "You can't hear, little girl,” her mother said in a weary tone, pulling her swiftly into the kitchen.

As she was being pulled away, Khadijah glimpsed the only person in the room who didn’t seem angry at her. He flashed his bright smile at her again, causing her to shudder.

At supper, Khadijah and her family gathered around a large dinner platter filled to the brim with jasmine rice and chicken in the living room area/children’s room/guest’s room/dining room of their tiny home. Joining them were their guests.

The old man attacked the food with alarming ferocity, shoveling rice and pieces of chicken into his mouth, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk hoarding its nuts. Bits of rice fell from his mouth, and his slurping and chomping sounds filled the room. Khadijah and her siblings exchanged glances. Their father always said you could tell a lot about a person based on how they ate in front of others, even predicting the type of life they would have in this world. Even Khadijah’s usually composed mother was visibly taken aback, pausing mid-bite to stare at the old man’s voracious appetite and eating etiquette, which painted a picture of a long and miserable life.

Khadijah’s father remained unfazed, continuing to eat as if nothing unusual was happening. His focus, though, was not entirely on his food. Khadijah could feel the heat of his anger directed at her, his eyes burning from her earlier eavesdropping. She knew that look all too well—her father was still seething, feeling disrespected in front of his guests. No doubt that she would face her punishment as soon as their guests had left.

In contrast, the tall stranger hardly touched the food in front of him. He continued his quiet conversation with the old man, leaning in to whisper in his ear. The old man would nod occasionally, his mouth still full, not breaking his rhythm of eating. After finishing his own meal, the old man even began to eat the food of his companion: an act met with no objection from the latter.

Khadijah observed the stranger intently, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling within her. Why was such a refined-looking man here, whispering to this old coot as if they were equals? The thought of a familial relation crossed her mind for a moment, but she quickly dismissed it. There was no way this stranger and the person next to him, eating like a demonic toddler, could be related. They were complete opposites in appearance and demeanor. These thoughts filled her head, but she knew better than to voice them. For now, all she could do was sit in silence, dreading the moment the guests would eventually leave and her father would deal with her.

For the next few days, the old man and his tall companion stayed at Khadijah’s home. They slept in the cramped living room area alongside Khadijah and her three siblings. Like previous guests, neither the old man nor his companion seemed to mind it. The companion’s indifference puzzled Khadijah the most. Each night, it was a strange sight to see the tall, elegant man, dressed in the finest attire, laying on an undersized cot. His legs and arms sprawled on the floor like a long-legged spider. His attire, suited for the grandest homes in town or even the finest residences further inland in the capital city, seemed out of place in their tight home. The whole situation felt unnatural to her. She couldn’t fathom why a man of such apparent wealth would subject himself to such a lowly condition. 

The days passed slowly, each one blending into the next. In their temporary home, the tall stranger and the old man established a routine that stood out starkly. They rose earlier than anyone else in the household, even before Khadijah’s father—a rare occurrence by itself. No guest had ever stirred before her father roused from his slumber, before the crack of dawn. By the time the family gathered for breakfast, the tall stranger and the old man had long departed, venturing into town under the dim light of early morning.

In contrast to their early rising, the two men would not return to Khadijah’s home until late in the evening. Her father, who had already returned from his day’s wanderings, would gather with the family, ready for dinner. The men would arrive just in time to join the gathering, slipping into their places as the dinner platter was served. Their mysterious whispers and erratic eating habits persisted, only deepening the enigma surrounding them. 

As Khadijah observed closely, bits of food often spilled from the old man’s mouth as he devoured his meal, while the tall stranger barely touched his own portion of the platter, engrossed instead in their subdued conversations. Like clockwork, after finishing his own food, the old man would move on to his companion’s side of the platter, nodding occasionally as he continued to eat.

After dinner, the two would step outside, continuing their conversations in more private detail until the night grew late, and it was time for bed. This pattern repeated itself perfectly, without deviation, for the entire duration of their stay.

Since the first day he invited him, Khadijah’s father had observed his reserved nature. Unlike previous guests, the old man was not the talkative type. Normally, after dinner, her father had a routine of inviting guests to his room for tea and companionship. However, he soon recognized the man’s preference for privacy and desire for solitude. After a few attempts, he ceased extending the invitation.

Khadijah's curiosity grew with each passing day. The tall stranger, with his polished appearance, and the old man, with his coarse manners, made for an odd and fascinating pair. Their presence in her home was both intriguing and unsettling. From the crowded mattress she shared with her siblings, Khadijah would open her eyes early each morning to watch them slip out, wondering what they did in town all day. 

After her business dealings with her customers, she was always eager to head home and wait for their return each evening, hoping to overhear snippets of their whispered conversations.

Despite her curiosity, Khadijah knew better than to pry. The punishment still loomed large in her mind, and she dared not risk intensifying her father’s wrath. She observed the two guests in silence, her questions piling up with no hope of answers.

Eventually, the stay of the two guests at Khadijah’s house did come to an end, though not as expected. Unlike previous guests who left with gratitude and farewells, their departure was abrupt and unceremonious.

It began on a Friday evening. The family gathered for dinner, as usual. Khadijah’s father had made it a habit to leave the front door open, sparing guests the inconvenience of knocking and waiting to be let in. The open door also allowed a much-needed cool breeze to circulate through the house, a relief after the day’s scorching sun. However, as the family sat down and began eating, the old man and his tall companion did not appear.

Puzzled glances were exchanged, but everyone continued their meal. The old man and his companion were conspicuously absent. Portions of food sat untouched on the platter like a deserted island. After everyone had finished eating, Khadijah’s father instructed her mother to save the portions with the expectations of a late arrival.

Moments later after this instruction was given, a young boy, not much older than Aliyu, rapped on the open door, announcing his presence breathlessly. Khadijah’s father hurried to answer the boy’s call. The entire family could hear the boy’s conversation with her father. Panting as if he had sprinted all the way, the boy relayed the news without mincing words: the police had apprehended the old man.

Khadijah’s father’s face tightened as he listened. The boy continued, explaining the reason for the arrest. But before he could utter a word, everyone in the family already knew what he was going to say. These were harsh times where economic woes bred strong anti-immigrant sentiments. Local police, also feeling the economic pinch, were more than eager to target anyone who seemed out-of-place in town, in the country. They swiftly arrested, processed, and deported any out-of-place foreigners.

Khadijah’s father knew this all too well. He himself had become a target of the police force, with some officers accusing him of harboring illegal immigrants. Some had even attempted to arrest and deport him, but he had narrowly avoided this fate by presenting his citizenship certificate. As a result, he kept his papers with him at all times.

After the boy finished relaying his message, Khadijah’s father thanked him and bid him good night, closing the front door with a heavy sigh. There was nothing the family could do about the old man’s predicament. “It’s in God’s hands now,” he said aloud.

Khadijah’s mind raced with thoughts about the tall stranger. Had he also been apprehended? Perhaps he was working with powerful connections to secure the old man’s release? Surely a man of his status must know someone influential enough to intervene. Their xenophobic town police did not know who they were dealing with. This wasn’t some poor, vulnerable immigrant; this man carried an air of authority and status that seemed out of place in their rural, stagnant town.

That night, piercing screams that sounded like a woman in distress abruptly awakened Khadijah and her family. The still air filled with the pounding of heavy boots on pavement, the shouts of men, and the shrill blasts of police whistles. “Look for them! They’re not far!” voices could be heard yelling repeatedly amidst the blaring whistles.

Initially, the family huddled in the living room area, confused and trying to make sense of the commotion outside. But it was another sound that sent a wave of dread through their hearts—the sharp, unmistakable crack of gunshots. The barrage of shots lasted only a brief moment, but for Khadijah and her family, huddled together as low as possible in the living room, it felt like an eternity. The noise reverberated through their small home, shaking its very foundation.

As the gunfire subsided, Khadijah’s father motioned silently for everyone to gather in his room. The family quickly and quietly hurried over there, closing the door tightly shut. In the dark room, Khadijah could see the fear etched on her siblings’ faces, and she knew her own mirrored theirs. Her mother held the youngest ones close, whispering reassurances that sounded hollow even to herself. Like their father, Aliyu had his ears perked and eyes sharp on the door, as if he could see what was going on outside.

They stayed like that for the entire night, wide awake and listening to the ruckus outside. The shouting and whistles continued unabated. No one in the family could rest; they were too alert, too aware of the lurking danger just beyond their walls. Fresh memories of a past civil war were entrenched in the minds of everyone, except the youngest. Memories of rioting, looting in their town, shooting and a Molotov cocktail thrown into their neighbor’s home, engulfing it in flames, as they navigated the chaos and escaped to the village: memories Khadijah, Aliyu, and Jaye most of all would never forget.

As the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the window, the noise outside abated. The family remained huddled together, exhausted but unable to relax. The fear still hung heavily over them all.

When it was finally quiet enough to risk it, Khadijah’s father slowly opened the door and stepped into the main living area. The rest of the family followed cautiously, their eyes scanning the room as if expecting to see remnants of the mayhem they had heard during the night. But there was nothing. The children’s mattress and the guest’s cot were undisturbed, exactly as they had been left.

Outside, the street was silent. Khadijah peered out the window and saw an empty street and intact neighbors' homes and shops against the backdrop of an unsettling calm.

Khadijah’s father spoke softly, breaking the silence. “It’s over for now. Let’s go with the day.”

Following their morning prayers, as the family gathered around to eat breakfast, a hard knock at the front door startled them. Khadijah’s father cautiously got up to answer, gesturing for everyone to remain where they were. Opening the door, he exhaled heavily. “Thank God, you’re safe.”

The entire family spun their heads toward the door. Standing in the doorway were the old man and his tall companion. Khadijah could make out their short and tall silhouettes as they contrasted starkly against the morning light. Eyes widened and mouths agape, the family stared as if they were seeing the dead. No one had expected to see the old man again.

“I came to get my things,” the old man said irritably, barging inside. Khadijah’s father stepped aside, allowing the man to collect his belongings, which were cluttered and stored in two large white plastic bags lying beside the guest’s cot.

Khadijah watched as the old man, acknowledging no one, hurriedly grabbed the plastic bags. He turned and headed back toward the door, his tall companion trailing behind like a loyal, silent shadow. Biting off and chewing a kola nut, the old man exited their home without a word of goodbye or any pleasantries.

Khadijah, her mother, and siblings joined her father at the doorway, watching in silence. Khadijah watched as the old man’s hunched figure and the tall stranger’s towering form slowly disappeared into the distance.

“What’s a rich man doing with that dirty geezer?” Khadijah blurted out.

“What rich man?” Aliyu asked, looking puzzled.

“The rich man with him. He follows that geezer everywhere. I wondered if they arrested them together.”

Aliyu sighed. “Khadijah, there’s no rich man with the old man.”

“Yes, there is! The tall, dark rich man. He was staying with us the whole time. You didn’t see him?”

“Kha—”

“Crazy Khadijah seeing things again,” Jaye said, making a face and sticking out his tongue.

“I am not crazy, stupid boy!” Khadijah pointed emphatically. “How could you not see the tall man in the black gown? He’s taller than even Alhaji Mamadou.”

“Crazy Khadijah!” Jaye continued teasing, causing Aliyu to chuckle.

Khadijah turned to her father. She was about to ask him to tell her brothers that she wasn’t crazy and that there was indeed another guest staying with them besides the old man. She was on the verge of asking him, but the familiar intensity in his gaze stopped her short—the same look she’d received when he caught her eavesdropping. At that moment, Khadijah said nothing as Jaye continued to tease her. From then on, she would mention nothing about the old man and his companion… the tall man in the black gown.

They called him “the old man from nowhere.” At least, that’s what two friends of Khadijah’s father said a few weeks later, when they joined the family for dinner on a Thursday evening. Before then, the two men, known as the town criers, had avoided visiting their friend’s house as long as the old man was staying there. In fact, as Khadijah, her father, and the rest of the mature family members—Khadijah’s mother and Aliyu—reflected during dinner, nobody had ever visited them while the old man was in residence: neither friends nor family.

“Ballou, you escaped a big calamity,” one man said to her father. Then, the two men recounted the night when gunshots startled Khadijah and her family: the night the family huddled together in a dark room until dawn. A jailbreak at the police station had caused the night’s chaos. Eleven prisoners had escaped, ranging from petty criminals like pickpocketers to serious offenders like murderers. These ten escapees wreaked havoc in the town that night, looting small shops and committing armed robberies in some homes.

One prisoner had a gun. Along with two fellow inmates, he stormed into the home of a wealthy Lebanese family. The husband attempted to resist, and the intruders viciously beat him in front of his terrified wife and three children—a son and two daughters. The men would have likely beaten him to death if the police hadn’t arrived in time.

Hearing this part of the story, Khadijah froze. Farid, one of her most loyal customers, was the husband attacked. Imagining his battered face and the terrified eyes of his friendly children made her stomach churn. She dropped her food, unable to eat another bite for the rest of dinner.

Continuing their story, the two men detailed how the police’s arrival caused the three prisoners to scatter. The officers managed to capture all three, but only took two of them alive. The prisoner with the gun, determined not to return to jail, engaged in a fierce firefight. Outgunned, he was shot to death not far from Khadijah’s home.

A more heartbreaking detail also emerged: a little boy had died in the crossfire. A stray bullet entered one of Khadijah’s neighbor’s homes, killing the boy instantly as he slept. His parents, particularly the mother, were inconsolable upon discovering the lifeless body.

The police captured five prisoners alive, while five prisoners remained at large, likely having fled to nearby towns. Thus, they were working with local forces in those towns to track down and apprehend the fugitives. Despite their efforts, the entire incident had significantly tarnished the reputation of the town’s police.

The two men abruptly stopped eating and leaned in, their faces shadowed. “He caused all this,” one of them whispered. The statement brought Khadijah’s father, mother, and brother Aliyu to a halt, unable to touch their food.

The men weaved their tale, describing how, upon being captured, the prisoners had told the police that the old man was the reason for their escape. According to the prisoners, the old man had been placed in their cell earlier that day. To them, he was a filthy, silent, old presence that was initially ignored.

But as midnight passed, the old man suddenly stirred and began waking the other inmates, asking if they wanted to escape. At first, they dismissed him as mad and paid no attention. However, his insistence grew louder and more fervid until he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

The lone officer on night watch, irritated by the disturbance, stormed over and ordered the old man to shut up at once. The old man fixed him with a stare, and to everyone’s shock, the officer collapsed as if struck by an invisible force, his head hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

Without missing a beat, the old man then glanced at the cell door, which swung open instantly. The prisoners, stunned and bewildered, took their chance and fled.

The police chief, woken from his sleep to aid in the pursuit, initially dismissed the prisoners’ account as nonsense. But when he and his officers returned to the station after an exhausting night, they found the scene exactly as described: their comrade unconscious on the floor, the cell door wide open, and the old man calmly sitting inside, chewing a kola nut, utterly unperturbed as the moonlight streamed through the barred window.

This scene shook the entire police force, including the previously skeptical chief, to their core. The authorities promptly released the old man under the pretense of good behavior for not escaping, but the true reason was fear. Terrified of another potential jailbreak, they wanted him gone as quickly as possible.

Khadijah and her family listened in stunned silence. Even Jaye and her younger sister were quiet. Not even her baby brother, held in her mother’s arms, made any sound. The room felt colder, the rice and beef stew on their dinner platter forgotten. The old man had been more than a mysterious lodger. They had housed him and, with that, welcomed danger in their midst.

As the story ended, the two men exchanged wary glances, their voices hushed as if the old man might somehow hear them. 

“Ballou, you and your family escaped a big calamity,” one of the men said.

“Yeah, Ballou, that old man is trouble everywhere he enters.” 

“Hee yee, he’s Satan.”

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Children were starting to go missing. This was the unsettling news Khadijah heard from her older sister upon arriving with her baby brother, Jaye, at their grandmother’s village. Salmana, her sister, had been staying with their grandmother for almost a year, helping the elderly woman with chores around her four-room hut.

“Salmana is doing everything for her grandmother. She’s even quieter than before, if you can believe it.” Khadijah’s father, Ballou, would smirk upon hearing this from those who had visited his mother-in-law’s village. However, that smirk never lasted long. “She’s definitely not like your other daughter. Ehhhh Ballou, Khadijah knows how to talk.” This was no compliment to Ballou. Each time he heard such remarks, it felt like a slap in the face. He hated the reputation Khadijah had garnered as a talker, a babbler, and the fact that she was proud of it. In his mind, from birth to adulthood, a woman was not supposed to talk much, let alone be known for it. The behavior of Ballou’s wife and eldest daughter, Salmana, reinforced this belief: silent and submissive. Khadijah’s defiance of this ideal womanhood kept Ballou up at night. Her misadventure with the wool blanket only exacerbated his worry. A talkative girl was a stain on Ballou’s household and, most importantly, his reputation. He felt he needed to do something about it, and fast, before Khadijah began her inevitable climb towards womanhood.

Salmana had been his first experiment and a successful one at that. The news that his eldest daughter was even quieter than before sounded like music to Ballou’s ears. How much quieter could the already introverted girl be? Could she now be a mute? To Ballou, a mute was preferable to a talker, and he would choose the former any day when it came to his daughters. “That stone-heart woman can tame anyone. Not even an angry bull can stop her.” Ballou would happily remark to his friends about his mother-in-law’s prowess in discipline, especially in rearing the unruly.

With his eldest daughter considered a success, Ballou implemented his plan to send Khadijah to her grandmother’s village to stay with the elderly woman as long as necessary to get the job done. He had already sent word to the elderly woman and arranged everything. She would be expecting and accommodating her granddaughter, Khadijah, and her five-year-old grandson, Jaye. Jaye was an additional piece to ensure the plan’s success, keeping Khadijah preoccupied and less likely to put two and two together. His daughter was not just a talker, but also incredibly bright and quick to pick up on things. If he had only sent her to her grandmother, she might have uncovered his plan and become rebellious, making it harder for the elderly woman to handle. Ballou trusted his mother-in-law’s disciplinarian prowess, but knew she had never encountered anyone like his headstrong daughter, named after his own mother, who was also reputedly headstrong, though not a talker.

“What do you mean they are missing?” Khadijah asked, wide-eyed, after arriving and settling into their grandmother’s hut. She was lying on a cot bed prepared for her and Jaye in Salmana’s room. However, Jaye had chosen to sleep with Salmana in her bed.

“Shush,” Salmana said, placing a finger to her lips. “You’ll wake Grandma and the baby.” She looked down, smiling as she pinched the cheek of a snoring Jaye, who was nestled against her chest, peacefully sucking his thumb. The little boy had slept through most of the three-day journey via a compact cab-over truck to the village, so his continued sleepiness was no surprise.

Khadijah glanced at her baby brother and shook her head. “Little devil,” she said under her breath, before laying her head back down on the pillow and closing her eyes. Her sister had been away from home for far too long, so much so that she had seemingly forgotten who was sleeping next to her. Jaye was no cute, quiet baby. He was a whirlwind of trouble: someone Khadijah had to constantly watch and battle with like cats and dogs. In the coming days, her sister would quickly remember who that “baby” sucking his thumb really was. She would have her hands full, eventually putting an end to him sharing her bed.

The next morning, Khadijah was roused before dawn by Salmana’s gentle but insistent shaking. Bleary-eyed, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The room was still cloaked in darkness, the only light coming from the faint glow of a lantern Salmana held.

“Time to get up,” Salmana said in a whisper. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Khadijah reluctantly crawled out of the cot, shivering in the early morning chill. She glanced over at Jaye, who was still sound asleep, his thumb secure in his mouth. Salmana led her out of the room and into the main area of their grandmother’s hut, where the woman was already up and preparing breakfast over a small fire.

Khadijah let out a loud yawn, prompting a sharp side-eye from her grandmother, followed by a disapproving click of her tongue. Salmana noticed and quickly intervened to diffuse any tension. “Come, let’s eat. We need to start work soon.” Their grandmother, a stern woman who took no nonsense and rarely smiled, nodded in agreement, her eyes fixed on the little girl who needed taming.

After a simple breakfast of mint tea and a piece of buttered baguette, and after performing their morning prayers, the duo set out. Salmana wasted no time introducing Khadijah to the day’s chores. First, they swept the hut, the sound of straw brooms scraping against the floor echoing in the morning's stillness. Then, they moved to the garden, weeding and tending to the fruits and vegetables. The sun had just begun to rise when they joined the laborers in the fields, helping with the backbreaking work of farming.

Khadijah’s arms quickly grew sore and numb from the relentless labor. Sweat dripped down her face, and her muscles ached, but she didn’t complain. Her mind remained too preoccupied with the missing children her sister had mentioned the night before.

“Do you know what happened to them?” Khadijah asked as they worked, her voice hushed.

Salmana shook her head. “Not now. We’ll talk after dinner, when the work is done.”

The hours dragged on. They fetched water from the creek, carrying heavy jugs back to the hut. They gathered firewood from the outskirts of the forest, a task that seemed to take forever as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

Throughout the day, Khadijah couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. Salmana’s eyes darted around constantly, and she kept a tight grip on a cutlass she carried with her.

By the time the sun set, Khadijah was exhausted. Her entire body ached, and she could barely lift her arms. Still, she pushed through, driven by her curiosity about the missing children.

As they made their last trip to fetch water from the creek, Khadijah noticed Salmana’s heightened paranoia. Her sister’s gaze flickered to the shadows, and she kept Jaye close, her grip on the cutlass tightening with every rustle in the bushes.

“They are watching us,” Salmana said quietly, her voice tense. “They would take him if they could.”

Khadijah’s heart skipped a beat. “Who’s watching us?”

Salmana’s eyes met hers, filled with a mixture of fear and determination. “We’ll talk about it after dinner. Just stay close and keep an eye on the baby.”

The rest of the walk back to the hut was silent and eerie. Khadijah’s mind raced with questions, but she held them back, waiting for the moment when they could finally sit down and talk. As they approached the hut, she glanced at Jaye, who seemed blissfully unaware of the tension around him.

Dinner that night was a simple affair, the family eating in near silence. Khadijah could hardly focus on the food, her mind buzzing with anticipation. After they finished the meal and cleared the dishes, Salmana led her outside, away from their grandmother’s earshot.

“What about the missing children?” Khadijah asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

Salmana took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the surrounding darkness. “It’s not just children going missing,” she said. “It’s the chimpanzees in the forest. They take those who stray too far from the village. The young and weak, especially.”

Khadijah shivered, a chill running down her spine. “Chimpanzees?”

Salmana nodded and proceeded to tell Khadijah about the village of chimpanzees that lived in the forest among them. Long before any humans, the chimpanzees ruled the area and the entire surrounding forest. They were the top predators. Village folklore talked about how the chimpanzees were much bigger, stronger, and more numerous back then, possessing the capabilities to hunt larger predators such as lions and leopards until they were no more. In time, humans, including their ancestors, took over the area and displaced the chimpanzees, but they did not go away so easily. There were often violent and deadly clashes between the two, and enmity existed to this day.

Salmana recounted recent reports of a gang of chimpanzees assaulting a girl a little older than her as she walked home on the narrow forested trail one evening. The chimpanzees were notorious for hurling rocks at people who trekked up a steep hill not too far from their village. However, the most serious and concerning reports were of the missing children and an elderly man with forgetfulness in their village. The cases all bore the same striking resemblance: a little child, all by their lonesome, around Jaye’s age and a little older, close to Khadijah’s age, heading towards the direction of the creek and never coming back.

The case of the elderly man with forgetfulness was a little tricky, as nobody knew which direction he went before disappearing. However, the direction he went did not matter, as everybody assumed the chimpanzees had gotten to him, likely ripping him to pieces.

The most recent case was of a woman in the village who was washing clothes in the creek and had sat her 8-month-old down for only a moment, only to find out that the baby had disappeared. Her case was the most gut-wrenching in the village as everybody loved the cute little boy. Salmana even had fed, bathed, and held him in her arms. The case was the last straw, and plans were being made for the men in the village to form a hunting party and hunt down the chimpanzees in the immediate vicinity, eliminating them outright or pushing them deeper into the forest as far as possible from the village. However, such plans were on hold because of a severe drought to contend with. Thus, in the meantime, they advised that all little children in the village, from Khadijah’s age and below, must have an adult accompanying them at all times or an older sibling.

“Cursed creatures,” Salmana said. “Grandma says they used to be bad humans, so God cursed them to live as beasts in the next life. That’s why they hate us so much.”

Khadijah swallowed hard. She glanced at Jaye, nestled in Salmana’s arms, his eyelids fluttering as he began to doze off.

Salmana caught her looking at him. “One thing for sure, they real and wicked. We have to watch the baby. That’s why I have mi knife.” She grabbed her cutlass, holding it out. The old blade, marred with nicks and scratches, had a dull, gray patina. The worn leather hilt showed heavy use, molded to her grip. It wavered slightly as she held it, a testament to its weight and her familiarity with it.

The flickering lantern light cast long shadows, and Khadijah’s eyes darted around the darkened surroundings, lingering on every rustle and movement. The missing children, the chimpanzees, the constant vigilance—it all painted a terrifying picture.

“Look, I’m not telling you this to scare you,” Salmana said, noticing Khadijah’s eyes. “Or do I have to watch you like a baby?”

“I am not a baby!” Khadijah shouted, shaking her head vehemently. Being called that “b” word was something she despised, especially coming from her eldest sister. She prided herself on being mature and capable, even more so than Salmana. For Jaye’s sake and her own, she resolved to bury her fears, keep her eyes wide open, and stay alert.

Salmana chuckled. “Okay, okay, big girl. Just make sure you don’t come crawling into my bed at night.”

“I would never. You don’t come crawling into my bed.” As she said this, Khadijah still felt the chill in her spine. These fears would not be so easy to bury.

For the next few days, Khadijah worked tirelessly alongside her sister, completing their daily chores. To her grandmother’s surprise, she never uttered a single complaint or refused any task. From dawn to dusk, Khadijah, the girl deemed restless and in need of taming according to her father, now toiled diligently. Though, her eyes never ceased scanning their surroundings, particularly focused on Jaye, surpassing even Salmana in vigilance over his activities and wanderings.

The nights were the most challenging for Khadijah. As she lay on her cot with Jaye, exhausted from his day’s adventures, beside her, her senses stayed on high alert. The nocturnal sounds of the forest filled her with dread. She imagined the relentless screams of chimpanzees, imagining them delighting in the torment of their latest young victim. Desperately, she tried to block out the sounds and her terrifying thoughts. Briefly, she succeeded, but as soon as she drifted into sleep, nightmares took hold.

One particularly harrowing nightmare ripped her from sleep with a scream. In the dream, apes unexpectedly overran the village. The villagers, caught off guard, scattered in every direction. Khadijah stood frozen in horror as the chimpanzees tore through the huts, their powerful limbs smashing everything in their path. She frantically searched for Salmana and their grandmother but couldn’t find them amidst the chaos and the screams of fleeing villagers.

Then she saw them: a group of chimpanzees dragging Jaye away. He was kicking and screaming, his small fists pounding against his captors. Khadijah’s legs moved on their own, pushing her forward in a desperate attempt to save her brother.

“Jaye!” she cried out, her voice breaking. “Jaye, I’m coming!”

Before she could reach him, a gang of stragglers turned and blocked her path. Their dark, malevolent eyes locked onto hers. They smiled, revealing long, yellowed fangs, and advanced slowly, savoring the fear in her eyes.

Khadijah backed away, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked around for an escape but found none. The apes closed in, their muscles rippling under coarse black fur. She saw the cruel intent in their eyes, the anticipation of the pain they were about to inflict.

One of them suddenly lunged at her.

Khadijah jolted awake, her scream echoing in the silent night. She bolted upright, drenched in sweat, her heart racing. Beside her, Jaye slept on, snoring like a pig. 

Salmana stirred from her cot across the room, her eyes heavy with sleep but alert nonetheless. “Bad dream?”

Khadijah nodded, unable to find her voice. The nightmare’s vivid images were still fresh in her mind. 

“Want to sleep in my bed?”

Khadijah felt a wave of relief and was about to move over Jaye to take up her sister’s offer. But then she glimpsed the faint smirk forming on her sister’s lips and knew instantly what the girl was thinking. “I thought you said you were a big girl and would never crawl into my bed.”

Realizing this, Khadijah abruptly changed her mind. “No, I am fine,” she said a little too loudly.

A voice, groggy with sleep, groaned from the other side of the hut. “Salmana, shut that girl up. If I get up from my bed, it won’t be good for the two of you.”

Khadijah lay back down quickly, her heart still pounding. She stared at the ceiling, wide awake, the nightmare replaying in her mind. She could still see the dark, malevolent eyes of the chimpanzees, hear their cruel laughter, and feel the desperate need to save Jaye.

She did not sleep that entire night, nor did she sleep well in the days that followed. The nightmare lingered, a constant shadow in her mind, fueling her vigilance and deepening her resolve to protect her little brother at all costs.

Eventually, Khadijah stopped having nightmares altogether. However, their cessation did not bring peace; instead, they were replaced by a deep-seated fear that would last her entire lifetime. Two incidents, one at the creek and another involving the wool blanket, unleashed this pervasive dread, ensuring she would never willingly go near any natural body of water again.

The incident at the creek occurred one late Saturday morning. The weather was blisteringly hot, and all the children in the village decided that a swim in the nearby creek would be a welcome relief. Khadijah and Salmana were given the day off from chores by their grandmother. This wasn’t so much a gesture of kindness as it was a necessity; the extreme heat had made work impossible for all.

Following breakfast and a quick sweep around the hut, the trio—Khadijah, Salmana, and Jaye—eagerly joined the other children heading to the creek. Salmana, armed with her cutlass, was one of the chaperones, along with a group of older teenagers. They were tasked with keeping an eye on the younger children, ensuring they didn’t wander into the surrounding forest or, worse, get taken by the chimpanzees.

Upon arriving at the creek, the children immediately jumped into the water, reveling in the cool, refreshing respite from the oppressive heat. Khadijah swam alongside Salmana, both enjoying the water while the older girl kept a vigilant eye on everyone.

Jaye, however, chose not to swim. Instead, he sat on what appeared to be a large rock by the creek, shaded by a tree, happily eating a tangerine. Khadijah watched him, amused by how he savored the fruit, his legs swinging joyfully.

“Sit still, silly boy!” Khadijah called out.

Jaye laughed and yelled back, “I am still!”

Khadijah continued to observe him, flummoxed by what she was seeing. Despite hardly moving, the boy seemed to rise up and down. “Jaye, sit still! Stop moving your legs!” she shouted again.

Jaye obeyed, but he still rose and fell on the rock, despite now being almost completely motionless. Khadijah’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the scene. Suddenly, her heart froze. What she had thought was a rock began to take a more pronounced and ominous shape. A shape that was the coiled body of a massive serpent, its dark green and spotted scales blending seamlessly with the surrounding verdure environment.

Khadijah’s breath caught in her throat. She tapped Salmana’s shoulder frantically, pointing towards Jaye.

At first, Salmana didn’t understand. But as she focused on the rock and what Khadijah was pointing at, her eyes widened in horror. “Snake!” she screamed, pointing at the serpent.

The scream set off a chain reaction. Children and chaperones alike shrieked in terror and began to flee towards home.

Panic surged through Khadijah. She had to save Jaye. The serpent’s coils shifted slightly, revealing more of its massive body. But before she could scramble out of the water and sprint towards him, the boy was already on the run. The moment Salmana uttered that diabolical word for his small ears to hear, Jaye understood.

He had suspected that the rock was no ordinary rock when he first plopped his behind on it. Rocks were never this smooth and slippery, not like this one, which felt as if he could slide right off. Rocks didn’t have deep, throbbing veins that felt like sitting on restless streams surging beneath the surface. And more than anything, rocks didn’t snore—heavy, monstrous sounds that reverberated through his small frame.

Jaye was the first to take off, sprinting far ahead of everyone at the creek. He ran until his lungs burned, not stopping until he reached the village. Later, the sight of his frantic dash would become a source of entertainment for Khadijah and Salmana, who would recount the tale to family, friends, and acquaintances. They would vividly describe how he had leaped into the air upon hearing Salmana’s scream, his legs kicking wildly before his feet finally hit the ground, propelling him into a full-speed escape. It was an hilarious part of the story that always left them laughing until their bellies hurt. However, at the time, it was no laughing matter.

Breathless and wide-eyed, Jaye, Khadijah and Salmana, and the other children sprinted back to the village, recounting their terrifying encounter with the serpent at the creek. The elders in the village quickly gathered, and the men, armed with shotguns, cutlasses, and pickaxes, set out immediately.

When they reached the creek, the serpent was nowhere to be found. They combed through the surrounding brush, scouring every inch of the area, but the creature had vanished without a trace. What they did find, however, broke the spirit of even the toughest among them: scattered remains of cattle hooves and horns, and most distressing of all, fragments of multiple human skulls and teeth.

Realization dawned on the men. They debated among themselves, voices rising in heated arguments, nearly to the point of blows. Some demanded to hunt down the creature and avenge their losses. Ultimately, though, practicality won out.

“That’s what God says,” some conceded, accepting the harsh reality. With a harvest-destroying drought threatening starvation, they had urgent work to do and couldn’t afford a wild goose chase after such a creature: a creature known for its stealth.

Yet, not everyone could let it go, particularly the men who had lost small children. They set traps around the creek and spent many nights and their resting days stalking the area, hoping to catch sight of the serpent. But the creature remained elusive, a phantom that slipped through their fingers time and again. No one ever laid eyes on it again.

Months passed, and the villagers moved on, the entire ordeal gradually fading from their collective memory. The routines of daily life resumed, and the serpent became a distant, dark memory.

Then, news arrived from neighboring villages along the banks of the main river. 

Children and cattle were starting to go missing, too.

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The Misadventures of Khadijah: The Old Man from Nowhere.

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The full moon hung heavy in the ink-black sky, casting a ghostly glow over the gravel road that wound its way through the rural West African town. Khadijah’s small, sandaled feet shuffled over the rough path, her seven-year-old frame struggling under the weight of the thick woolen blanket she dragged behind her. The blanket, frayed and worn, snagged persistently on the jagged rocks jutting from the ground, forcing Khadijah to pause every few steps.

She sighed, her breath coming out in short, frustrated puffs in the still, humid air. The night was stifling, and beads of sweat clung to her forehead, mixing with the dust from the road. She knelt down, her fingers prying at the latest rock that had latched onto the blanket’s edge. It was a sizable stone, rough and unyielding, and Khadijah’s small hands struggled to dislodge it.

With a final grunt, she freed the blanket, standing up and wiping her dirty hands on her faded nightdress. She glanced around nervously. The town lay behind her in the distance, the houses silent—except for one that Khadijah was sure would not be silent by now—and the rocky road ahead stretched out into the darkness. Shadows danced around her, cast by the swaying branches of the palm oil and coconut trees that loomed overhead like giant sentinels.

Khadijah resumed her journey, the blanket trailing smoothly for a few precious moments before it caught again on another rock. This time, it was a cluster of smaller stones, their edges sharp and unforgiving. She bit her lip, her eyes darting to the shadows that seemed to grow darker and more menacing with each step. She bent down once more, her fingers trembling as she picked away the stones, one by one.

As Khadijah stood up again, she thought she heard a voice—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked around, her eyes wide and ears open. The whisper came again, a sibilant murmur that seemed to weave through the air like a delicate thread.

“Khadijah...”

Her breath caught in her throat, but as she stood still, straining to listen, she noticed the gentle rustling of the leaves in the coconut trees and the faint stirring of the tall grasses along the roadside.

“Khadijah...” the same whisper called out.

She let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. It was just the wind, she realized, playing tricks on her mind as it whispered through the trees and over the fields. The soft rustle and sigh of the night breeze created an illusion of voices in the stillness. She glanced around again, reassured by the familiar sounds of the nocturnal world, including the steady chirping of crickets surrounding her.

The moonlight flickered, as if caught in a sudden gust of wind and its trickery. Khadijah looked up at the full moon, her guiding light and solace. Its radiant glow illuminated the sky, one of the few major reasons she ventured out at night. She could rely on its brilliance not only to guide her path but also to help her accomplish her task when she reached the lake.

The gravel crunched loudly underfoot, each step forward echoing in the night. The blanket snagged again, but this time, Khadijah didn’t stop. She pulled harder, the fabric tearing slightly as it came free. She didn’t care. She just needed to keep moving. It was the only way she would be able to get back in time.

Khadijah continued dragging the blanket, her small hands gripping the frayed edges tightly as she trudged forward. The gravel road, unforgiving and rough, gradually gave way to a softer texture beneath her sandals; the crunch of stones underfoot gave way to the squish of wet grass. She glanced down, watching as the blanket became damp, clinging to the blades of grass and the occasional patch of mud.

She knew she was at the toughest part of her trek now. Instantly, she looked up to face the tall reeds in front of her. Greeting her like a longstanding enemy, the reeds stood still despite the night breeze: their slender forms like silent battalions marking the boundary of the marshland.

Khadijah paused, taking in the familiar yet daunting sight. The reeds, with their pale, moonlit tips, stretched endlessly, blending into the dark horizon. She tightened her grip on the blanket, biting her bottom lip. The whispers of the wind seemed to encourage her, urging her to push through this last challenge.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward, the wet grass giving way to shallow pools of water. The cold seeped through her sandals, but she pressed on, each step deliberate and careful. The blanket trailed behind her, its weight increasing as it absorbed the moisture from the marshy ground. She had come too far to turn back now.

With every stride, Khadijah kept her eyes on the path ahead, navigating through the maze of reeds and water. Her heart leapt with joy as the distant shimmer of the lake came into view. 

As she exited from the reeds, the expanse of the lake shimmering before her like a promise. But when she took her next step, the blanket became stuck, bogged down by the weight of water and the marshy grass clinging to it. She turned around and pulled with all her might.

Her first attempt failed, her small hands slipping off the wet fabric. She took a deep breath and tried again, her muscles straining as she tugged at the sodden blanket. The blanket refused to budge. On her third attempt, she mustered every ounce of strength, gritting her teeth as she gave a final, desperate pull.

With a sudden lurch, the blanket came free, but the force sent Khadijah sprawling backward. She landed on her bottom in a soggy patch of grass, the cold seeping instantly through her nightdress and underwear. She gasped, the chill of the water making her shiver.

Instantly, she scrambled to her feet, patting down her dress to remove the excess water. The cold water in her sandals and now-soaked underwear made her shiver uncontrollably. She hugged herself for a moment, trying to ward off the chill.

Determined not to let this setback deter her, Khadijah steeled herself and resumed her journey. The lake was so close, its surface reflecting the moonlight like a mirror. She scanned the lakeshore, searching for the spot she needed. There it was: a smooth, large boulder near the water’s edge, bathed in moonlight and kissed by gentle waves. She quickened her pace, eager to reach her destination, but stopped abruptly, her breath hitching.

There, on the boulder, was the silhouette of a woman. She lay with her back turned, looking up at the moon. The woman’s stillness contrasted sharply with the lively dance of the waves against the shore. Her long hair flowed down her back like a dark river, her figure blending almost seamlessly with the shadows cast by the moonlight.

Upon seeing the woman’s figure, a warmth spread through Khadijah’s body, making her forget the cold and dampness in her sandals and clothing. Her heart leapt with joy at the possibility of having company on this dark and lonely night.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Khadijah raced toward the lakeshore, pulling the blanket behind her faster than she ever had before. Upon reaching the shore, she immediately and elatedly greeted the woman lounging with her back on the boulder. “Hello!” she called out, her voice bright with excitement. The woman did not look at her, keeping her eyes fixed on the moon.

Undeterred, Khadijah tried again, louder this time. “Hello! Beautiful night, isn’t it?” She waved her hands energetically and moved closer, her sandals crunching on the rocky and sandy shore. The blanket trailed behind her, heavy and damp but forgotten in her eagerness.

As she drew nearer, she noticed that the woman seemed to be sitting on the shore. The darkness outside the moonlight’s reach obscured much of the woman’s form. Her head and torso were distinctly visible, but below that and untouched by the moonlight, everything faded into an inky blackness.

Khadijah approached until she was just a few steps away. “Do you like the mo—”

The woman turned abruptly, causing Khadijah to stop in her tracks. She looked at Khadijah with a hint of annoyance, as if interrupted from deep thought.

Khadijah pointed at the moon. “Do you like the moon?” Her voice was milder and softer now, still teeming with excitement.

The woman glanced at the moon briefly before turning her gaze back to Khadijah. As she faced the little girl directly, her brows furrowed, and a frown creased her face.

“You are beautiful,” Khadijah said in awe, her voice barely a whisper. The moonlight had shifted, casting a brighter glow on the woman—a woman Khadijah had never seen before in her tiny little life. It illuminated the woman’s face, revealing creamy beige skin that seemed to glow with an ethereal light. Her heart-shaped face boasted high, delicate cheekbones and a perfectly sculpted jawline. Her nose was slender and elegant, and her full lips, slightly parted, had a hint of a natural rosy hue.

The woman’s eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, were a deep, captivating shade, glistening like dark pools in the moonlight. They held a depth that drew Khadijah in, making her momentarily forget her surroundings. The woman’s raven-black hair flowed down, partially covering her bare, perky breasts, with silky strands cascading over her shoulders and disappearing into the darkness behind her. The moonlight played off the subtle highlights in her hair, making it shimmer like flowing silk.

Khadijah stood entranced by the woman’s beauty. The woman’s serene and otherworldly presence contrasted with the dead silence of the night. Her delicate features and the graceful curve of her neck made her seem almost unreal, a vision conjured by the moon itself.

“I wish I was beautiful like you,” Khadijah managed to say, her voice filled with longing.

The woman’s gaze softened slightly as she regarded Khadijah, and for a moment—only a split moment—, the hint of a smile touched her lips.

“I wish my hair was long like yours,” Khadijah continued, no longer in a trance. “See my hair.” She eagerly turned to show the woman her hair, which flowed down just below shoulder level. Hair length was a point of pride for Khadijah, as no other little girl in town could match hers. Yet, in that moment, Khadijah dreamed that with hair like the woman, not even the older women could compare. She was certain she would be the most beautiful in town.

“Watin yu dae do ya?” a voice asked, suddenly jolting Khadijah from her flights of fancy. She looked at the woman, shocked, unable to believe what she had just heard. The Krio accent was unlike any she had encountered before. The closest comparison was when she eavesdropped on the gossips of the elderly Creole women in town, but even their speech wasn’t as thick and heavy as the accent uttered by the woman. It sounded primitive and ancient, as if spoken in a faraway, different time.

Still, Khadijah, ever the social butterfly, wasn’t going to let the question go unanswered. If the woman had known Khadijah, she would never have posed the question or any question, for that matter. Everyone in town knew that Khadijah was the resident blabbermouth, and talking to her was a sure way to invite a torrent of chatter. However, the woman seemed unaware of this, and Khadijah was glad that, for once, someone didn’t know about her reputation.

Taking a deep breath, Khadijah then exhaled, unleashing all the explanations that she could think of to more than answer the woman’s simple question. Her words poured out in a torrent as she explained her reason for being at the lake: to prove to everyone in town that she was not a baby anymore and was more than capable of taking care of herself. She lamented how everyone saw her as the baby in the family and her older sister as the mature one, despite the girl being only four years older. Not to mention, Khadijah considered herself much more social than her introverted sister. She could talk to anyone in town and was even more well-liked. Besides height and age difference, she believed her sister had nothing to offer in terms of maturity. Yet, everyone in town considered her the baby and her sister the older and superior one.

Determined to prove them wrong, she had taken the wool blanket to wash at the lake so it would be ready for the newborn baby expected that night. Khadijah showed the woman the blanket, explaining how nearly all the women in town were at her neighbor’s home, a young couple expecting their first child, as the wife was in labor. With everyone so focused on the laboring wife, she had quietly taken the blanket meant for the expected newborn, believing it was dirty and needed a good wash in the lake.

The whole time Khadijah spoke, the woman remained silent, her expression stone-cold. But when Khadijah showed the blanket, the woman’s gaze shifted, filled with intrigue. Khadijah went on, explaining that she wanted to do something important to prove she could handle responsibilities just as well as her sister. So, she had sneaked out with the blanket, determined to have it clean and ready for the newborn. It was a special night, and she wanted to contribute in her own way: a way that highlighted her maturity.

The woman stayed silent, her eyes fixated on the blanket. The moonlight illuminated her features, highlighting the deep contemplation in her gaze.

After finishing her story, Khadijah suddenly remembered the urgency of her task. She hadn’t come to the lake just to chat; she had a mission. She tugged at the blanket, trying to pull it into the water, but it was too heavy, weighed down with gravel, thick marshland grasses, mud and water. She strained against its weight, but it wouldn’t budge.

Desperate, she glanced at the woman. “Can you help me wash the blanket?” she asked, but the woman remained still, her eyes on the blanket as if she hadn’t heard Khadijah’s plea.

Suddenly, a voice called out through the night air, “Khu-deeee-zhuh.” The cadence started low and rose sharply at the end. Khadijah froze, recognizing the voice. Her father only called her that way in times of danger: a near danger. Her heart raced as she heard rustling in the marshland behind her. Turning, she saw a figure emerging from the shadows, a flashlight cutting through the darkness. It was her father.

She spun back to tell the woman, but the boulder was empty. The woman had vanished, leaving only the moonlit shore and the gentle waves. Eyes wide, Khadijah opened her mouth to speak, but a rough, calloused hand clamped over her mouth before she could utter a word.

“If you say one word, you will see blood,” her father’s voice growled in her ear.

Khadijah’s head bobbed in a quick nod; her breath hitched in her throat, and she felt a cold sweat break out across her skin. If there was one thing she feared more in this entire world, it was the sight of blood. Her father’s hand moved to grip her wrist, yanking her away from the lake. The frantic swishing of his white gown echoed in her ears. She looked back, trying to reach for the blanket, but it was already receding into the distance.

The blanket and the mysterious woman were lost to the night as Khadijah’s father dragged her swiftly towards town.

In the days that followed, starting from that very night, Khadijah was overtaken by severe nausea, vomiting, and cold sweats, leaving her bedridden and teetering on the brink of death. 

After ten agonizing days, she emerged triumphant, returning to her talkative self.

However, another child in town wasn’t so fortunate. On the same night as Khadijah’s venture to the lake, a young couple welcomed their newborn baby girl. By the following morning, their joy had turned to grief as they said their goodbyes, shattered by a sudden and inexplicable loss. Well, not entirely inexplicable. The bereaved young wife was convinced that something was amiss about her child’s death—something sinister. She constantly told anyone who would listen, though those willing to do so grew fewer by the day.

In the town, it was common for mothers who lost their children at birth to grieve openly to heal. However, the young wife’s grief was neither common nor normal. Her public laments were loud, irrational, and often nonsensical. Those who lent an ear to her sorrows soon regretted it and began avoiding her altogether. She screamed the same accusation at the top of her lungs, “I dream she take mi pikin that night! She dey eat her!” Who was the “she” that took her child? The young wife would not say or reveal an identity to anyone, not even to her own husband, no matter how much he badgered her to talk. It seemed as though she was scared to reveal the identity, as if fearing retribution.

Her cries resonated throughout the town, leaving a lasting impression on all who heard them. Khadijah and her father, being next-door neighbors to the grieving couple, were particularly affected. Each time they heard the cries, her father would repeat his warning, a constant reminder of that night at the lake. “There are things in this world God created for the eyes not to see and the mouth not to speak,” he would say, adding a chilling admonition to ensure Khadijah heeded his words: “Remember, there will be blood.”

Eventually, the young wife’s grief became too much for her husband to bear. Unable to cope with her public laments and irrational outbursts, he decided to take her back to his parents’ village, hoping a change of scenery would help her heal. He reasoned that being away from the place where they lost their child might bring her some peace.

Khadijah would return to the lake, several times in fact, though never at night and always with the company of her oblivious older sister. She never spoke of the incident at the lake to her sister or anyone else in the family. Each time she returned, she scoured the shoreline and reeds, searching for the wool blanket. But it was nowhere to be found. 

Surprisingly, no one in town mentioned its whereabouts or disappearance.

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“Boss, there’s been an accident on the freeway. We will have to take Market street to get home.”

“No problem, Joseph,” Ola replied, sinking back into her seat with a mix of fatigue and contentment. She lifted her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes, the weariness of the long flight and the intense week-long conference in London weighing heavily on her. The event had been a whirlwind of inspiration, a gathering of brilliant minds and innovative spirits, all hailing from the Motherland.

The conference had offered Ola a kaleidoscope of experiences. She had met many African women, each one a testament to determination and resilience in the tech world. From seasoned veterans to budding entrepreneurs, their stories of overcoming obstacles and shattering barriers had left an indelible mark on her. Their passion had reignited her own drive, inspiring her to reach for new heights in her own endeavors.

As Joseph maneuvered the car onto bustling Market Street, Ola gazed out of the window of her Mercedes Maybach, invigorated by the energy of the conference. Her mind raced with excitement and possibilities, particularly regarding the business venture she and Howard were about to embark on together.

With her tech-oriented mind and Howard’s skill sets, Ola was confident they could revolutionize the home renovation industry in their country. If their venture proved successful, she envisioned expanding their business into franchise models all over West Africa. The sky was the limit, and she was determined to reach for the stars.

As Ola gazed out of the window, she noticed the passing rows of market vendors and pedestrians beginning to slow down. Sensing the car’s deceleration, she was about to question Joseph about the sudden change in pace when her eyes landed on a figure seated on the curb, surrounded by empty green beer bottles.

“Stop the car, boy!” she yelled at Joseph. Reacting swiftly, Joseph brought the car to a stop, affording Ola an unobstructed view of the figure—a disheveled man, unmistakably Howard.

At the sight of him, her heart leaped in her chest. His denim overalls slouched around his waist, exposing the upper half of his bare bottom. The straps dangled, unhooked, like loose tendrils, while his once clean white T-shirt clung to him, rumpled and stained with scattered splatters of blood.

Pressing the button to lower the car window, she called out his name repeatedly, but Howard seemed oblivious, his head bobbing as he looked all around but in her direction.

Ola stepped out of the vehicle, closing the door behind her. As she turned to face Howard, their eyes met, revealing his bloodshot and puffy gaze. “Howard!” she called out again, walking towards him.

“Stay the fuck away from me, bitch!”

The vulgarity and intensity of the voice caught Ola off guard, causing her to freeze in her tracks. More so, the voice was unlike anything she had ever heard before: such deep-seated anger, such rage.

“Howard! How—”

“Stop fucking calling my name, bitch!” he yelled, his hands clutching his head as he shook it violently. “I can’t get her out of my head!”

As Ola cautiously stepped closer to Howard, he suddenly whipped around to face her, baring a toothless snarl akin to a wolf.

“I told you, bitch!” His voice thundered, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. “LEAVE. ME. THE. FUCK. ALONE!”

“Howard,” Ola said, begging. “Come, let’s go h-”

Before she could finish her sentence, Howard seized an empty beer bottle nearby and hurled it. Lucky for her, the bottle slipped from his grasp just as he released it, shattering into pieces on the concrete. Unlucky for him, she saw the intention.

Ola quickly turned and swung open her car door, sliding into the passenger’s seat and pulling the door shut. “Drive,” she said to Joseph, who promptly pressed his foot on the accelerator. Just before they sped off, Ola looked for the last time into the eyes of her potential business partner. Somewhere deep within him, she glimpsed the Howard she had grown accustomed to and fond of. She could see that Howard swimming, fighting and struggling to surface from the depths of a sea of booze to tell her that he was sorry and that it was all a misunderstanding.

As Joseph accelerated home, Ola’s thoughts raced. She believed she could help him. It wouldn’t be too difficult. Taking him to her church and finding the best treatment center immediately came to mind. It would be a long road to recovery for him that would require her time and attention. Time and attention that were, unfortunately, nonexistent due to running a company with 75 employees and, most importantly, caring for her children.

Joseph observed Ola through the rearview camera. He could see the tears running down the woman’s stoic face as she repeatedly wiped them off like windshield wipers. A soft smile graced his lips.

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“Thank you again Howard,” Joseph said. “I thank you for coming with me to wash the cars.”

“It’s no problem, man,” Howard said. “No problem at all.” 

Joseph gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles changing color. If Howard hadn’t been so focused on looking out of the rolled-down window of Ola’s Range Rover, he might have noticed.

“Like a dog,” Joseph thought to himself, clenching his jaw each time he glanced at Howard with his head sticking out of the passenger’s window. This job was supposed to be easy. Infiltrate the homes of the wealthy, posing as their driver or a member of the household help, steal valuables, and move on to the next target. It was a relatively straightforward payday for him and his crew.

Despite being amongst the youngest members, he had pitched the idea to his crew boss, a drug kingpin with a significant hold on the city’s south area. “You got balls, boy,” one of the senior members had remarked when he presented his plan. While many in the crew saw the plan as too risky, fearing the wrath of wealthy elites with some of them having connections as far up to the president, the crew boss saw potential. His approval was all that mattered, after all.

However, there was a condition: Joseph had to execute the plan himself. There could be no mistakes, no brushes with the police. If Joseph were caught or spotted near an officer or police station, he could kiss his membership in the crew and, ultimately, his life goodbye. The Raiders, save for the boss, all adhered strictly to the code: the police meant certain death. Even the boss didn’t dare to challenge this code, despite his leadership status and impunity.

Joseph trusted Ola’s houseboy, Isaac, who had been a childhood friend. It was Isaac who had informed him about Ola’s need for a skilled driver and the safe in her room. It would not have been a hard safe to crack really as he had experienced with much worse. 1 hour max and he would have access to all the lady’s valuables. Would have if it was not for the lady’s homeless friend. Joseph had expected no one to be home that night. It would have been his easiest job yet: would have.

“Homeless drunk,” Joseph muttered as he glanced again at Howard. He couldn’t fathom what Ola saw in him. Everybody and their mother knew the man was a drunk, a horrible one at that. Joseph had seen Howard many times in the city, wasted out of his mind and pissing openly in the streets while swearing at passing traffic. He also regarded Howard’s tales of attending private Catholic school and a prestigious university in America as what they were, tales, with the purest fiction. If only Ola could see how he and everybody else saw the homeless man when he was in his element, flat out drunk, then she wouldn’t be so quick to cater to him.

“Em…Howard,” Joseph said.

“Huh?” Howard turned abruptly from the window, as if snapped out of a daydream.

“I need to stop by... my place in the city first to check on mi papa. Not take long, just to see if he... if he…took his medicines.”

“Sure, no problem, man.”

That was a lie. Joseph didn’t have a papa, at least not currently. Raised by a single mother, he only remembered his father from when he was five, leaving with the parting words, “I’m not raisin a pikin that’s not mi blood.”

However, it was a crucial lie that preserved his plan. Joseph shuddered at the mere thought of being dragged to the police. He was prepared to fight Howard that night to the bitter end, if necessary. Despite keeping the plan intact, the window of opportunity had closed. Ola was due back tomorrow around noon, preceded by her children and house staff in the morning. The chance Joseph had hoped for evaporated the moment he was caught in the act. And he couldn’t predict when another opportunity might arise with the mansion empty. Waiting for such a chance was out of the question. He hated having to tell his boss that he needed more time, possibly another two weeks at the latest. Action needed to be taken immediately, preferably far before those two weeks elapsed.

The only problem with this entire plan was Howard. Ever since that night, the man had been watching Joseph like a hawk and checking the mansion every night. Joseph had Howard’s assurance that he would not tell Ola about what happened. Still, he did not trust such assurance, not from a man who used to piss in the streets.

The previous night, Joseph had pondered over ways to deal with Howard. He discarded several options as too risky and likely to attract the wrong types of attention. Joseph preferred subtlety in his criminal endeavors. While his crew favored bullets, he preferred finesse—a slip of poison in an adversary’s cocktail, a bribe to the server. While they preferred armed burglary, he favored quiet infiltration and a heist or an inside job, without detection. And while they resorted to force, he preferred exploiting people’s vices to make them disappear with no signs of foul play. In the case of Howard, Joseph settled on the latter approach. If all went as planned, he wouldn’t have to worry about him by the time of Ola’s flight arrival.

Joseph pulled up the white Range Rover to a bustling side street in the heart of the city, the air thick with the aroma of street food and the sound of honking cars and lively haggling between market vendors and customers . Abruptly, he opened the car door and leaned over to Howard through the rolled-down window.

“I’m gonna check on mi papa quick,” Joseph said hurriedly. “Watch the car? You know, the bad pikins coming from school throw rocks.”

Howard nodded and stepped out of the car. He watched as Joseph darted off into the crowd, disappearing amidst the hustle and bustle of the market. Howard redirected his focus to the car, standing vigilant against any potential troublemakers.

He stood watch for what felt like an eternity, the minutes dragging on like hours. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on his eyelids, a reminder of the sleepless nights he had endured over the past few days. Yet, despite the toll it took on him, he found solace in the accomplishment of his goal: completing the interior painting of Ola’s home before her impending arrival.

Joseph’s delay was longer than expected, tempting Howard to abandon his post and find the reason behind it. However, the thought of abandoning Ola’s car left him paralyzed. He couldn’t bear the thought of even a scratch tarnishing the pristine vehicle. Besides, even if he wanted to search for Joseph, the frenetic market street would swallow him whole, making it nearly impossible to track the young man down.

Leaning against the passenger side of the car, Howard felt himself drifting into a light doze. Just as his eyelids drooped shut, a sudden burst of blaring music jolted him awake. The cacophony emanated from a nearby open-air bar, the only one with a patch of beach sand to create the atmosphere of a tropical island. Amidst the concrete jungle of heavy traffic, busy crowds, and loud market vendors, the open-air bar with its sandy beach was a tacky eyesore. However, Howard understood its appeal and why it was situated in the middle of the city’s busiest area.

With the blaring music, Howard recognized the telltale signs of happy hour—a time when the bar enticed customers with lively tunes and discounted drinks, luring in weary workers on their way home from a long day. Like them, Howard used to frequent the bar during these busy hours. In fact, he was once the star attraction. He’d dance energetically on the sand as the crowd cheered and tossed money his way. With each round of drinks funded by his impromptu performances, he’d push himself to the brink, stumbling and falling amidst the laughter of the crowd. He was their homeless drunk jester, always ready to entertain customers after a hard day’s work.

“Sir, ice-cold beer?” came a voice, interrupting Howard’s thoughts.

“Huh?” Howard said, glancing around for the source of the sound.

A hand waved in front of him, drawing his attention downward. “Sir?” the woman repeated, her mocha complexion glowing under the sunlight.

Howard took in the sight of the woman in front of him, clad in a white bikini top and jean shorts, her feet adorned with pink flip-flops. In her left hand, she held a round black tray, upon which rested a half-empty green beer bottle and a full glass of foaming beer, complete with a yellow umbrella straw.

“Ice-cold beer, sir,” the woman said, holding the tray with both hands and extending it toward Howard.

“No thank you, Miss,” Howard said, quickly sidestepping away from the tray.

Undeterred, the woman moved closer to Howard and pushed the tray toward him again. “You sure? Half price.”

“Nope, nope Missy,” Howard said, shaking his head. “I’m good.” As he spoke, he realized the significance of his words. It had been nearly three months since he last touched alcohol. Certainly, he could credit his dedication to Ola’s renovation work for abstaining from alcohol, but enduring almost 90 days without the agonizing withdrawals and headaches felt like a miracle in itself. Oddly enough, as the woman held up the alcohol enticingly before him, he didn’t feel a shred of temptation. Instead, he felt disgusted.

“You’re a big man like you, after a hard day’s work,” the woman said in a seductive tone, her gaze drifting towards the Range Rover. “You must take break. Not everything has to be work and money. You must relax little.”

Howard chuckled, following her gaze. “Oh no, Missy, that’s not my car. I wish it was, but it’s not. Thank you, I’m fine. I’m just waiting for my friend, and then we’ll be on our way.”

After a few exchanges with Howard, the woman reluctantly abandoned her sales pitch. Despite offering the first drink on the house, she couldn’t sway him. She desperately wanted to persuade him, knowing there was a generous tip awaiting her if she succeeded—or so the young boy had promised when he slipped her $150. Disheartened by her failure, she trudged back to the bar, defeated. That tip would have covered her expenses for the entire month and more than provided for her three young mouths at home. Now, she had to make her rounds the old-fashioned way with the bar’s happy hour and cheap regulars.

Howard watched as the woman made her way back to the bar, her persistence leaving him amused. She was definitely the most tenacious waitress he had ever encountered. He observed her slow progress on the beach sand, her pink flip-flops trudging along as if they were heavy hiking boots. As he followed her footsteps, the reggae tune blaring from the bar’s speakers caught his attention. It had been playing throughout their exchange. Turning his gaze to the speakers, Howard recognized the familiar drum beats, guitar chords, organ melodies, and lyrics. He could never forget those lyrics. Singing, ‘Don’t worry ‘bout a thing…The soothing voice of Bob Marley. Only Howard was not hearing Bob Marley, he was hearing her voice: ...every little thing gonna be alright…

Howard clutched his head and staggered backwards. “Shit,” he said through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The nausea and throbbing intensified as his mind became inundated with a torrent of memories: memories of her. Memories of her singing to him at night in bed as he wrapped his arms around her and lay his head on her chest. Memories of him telling her he loved her “more than anything on this whole wide Earth.” Memories of her smile and that blue moon eye. Memories of the last time he saw her, and the diamond ring on that finger. 

These memories stirred up a whirlwind of thoughts, a recent development as he had been grappling with them over the past few years. He pondered what her life might be like now—perhaps she had children, maybe even grandchildren. He wondered if, during those quiet moments alone in her rocking chair on the front porch of the suburban house they used to dream about together in the shipping container, she ever thought of him.

Howard slowly opened his teary eyes. Although the nausea and throbbing began to fade, his mind continued to replay the same thoughts in an endless loop. He rubbed his scratchy, dry throat, feeling as rough as sandpaper. Scanning through the rows of market street vendors and pedestrians, his gaze eventually landed on it; it was sitting alone on the bar table, untouched and abandoned on the black tray. Illuminated by a ray of evening sunlight, it emitted a faint green hue, beckoning to Howard like a lighthouse guiding a ship.

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As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the sky, Howard made his way home from another day’s work at Ola’s mansion. The renovation project was nearing completion, with only the final touches of paint left to apply to the exterior and interior of the home. Despite the fatigue weighing heavily on his shoulders, Howard felt a surge of happiness coursing through his veins, so strong that he felt he could break into a dance right there on the street.

It had been nearly a month and a half since the day he poured his heart out to Ola. Since then, she had embraced him with unwavering support and shared her secret business plan: a partnership with him in a venture to renovate the homes of the wealthy. The idea of someone like Ola, a successful businesswoman, wanting to collaborate with him, seemed surreal. Not long ago, he had lost himself in the depths of despair, drowning in alcohol and meandering through the streets. Now, thoughts of drinking were a distant memory, replaced by the consuming focus of his work at Ola’s home. He was determined to do his best and get the job done, driven by a desire not to disappoint the one person in the entire country who showed genuine care for him.

Howard saw Ola like a mother, feeling that she already surpassed even his own mother in terms of kindness and empathy. She hardly knew him and there she was catering to his needs: offering him shelter or a flat free of charge, clothing such as comfortable work overalls made from cotton, and instructing her house staff to provide him with breakfast, lunch, and dinner upon his request. And that was not taking into account the fact that she paid him and his men promptly—without delay—for their work completed.

The offer of a free flat caught Howard completely off guard. It happened just two weeks ago, but the memory was etched in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. It was one of the happiest moments of his life.

Ola had instructed Isaac to tell Howard to meet her at her company when he arrived at the mansion that morning. Following Ola’s instructions, Howard arrived at the company and was escorted into a large executive office where he found the businesswoman holding a key, gently swinging it back and forth. “I can’t have my future business partner living on the streets,” she said, handing him the key. “It’s a simple flat just outside of the city, away from all the foolishness and temptations.”

Howard hesitated, expressing his concern that he wouldn’t be able to afford the rent for such a place. But Ola quickly reassured him, insisting that the flat was hers to provide, considering it as part of her investment in him. She emphasized she expected their business partnership to repay her “more than a 10x return.” Howard vividly remembered the firm handshake and the icy stare in Ola’s eyes as she spoke those words.

As he walked along the dimly lit streets towards his new home, Howard’s mind buzzed with excitement at the prospect of starting a business with Ola. The idea of partnering with her in a luxury home renovation venture filled him with anticipation and hope for the future. Despite the hardships he had faced, Howard knew that with Ola by his side, things would change for the better—by far.

Upon approaching the door to his flat, Howard reached into his pocket. Fingers fumbled for the keys to unlock the door. However, they grasped nothing but empty air. A wave of excitement now overtaken by panic.

Frantically, he racked his brain, trying to recall where he might have left them. Then, like a bolt of lightning, the memory struck him: he had placed the keys under one of Ola’s patio chairs earlier that day. It was a precautionary measure really, meant to prevent them from falling out of his pockets as he worked with the paint brushes.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of Howard’s stomach as he remembered that today was the day Ola’s house staff and her children had gone to visit their grandparents, leaving the mansion empty. Ola herself was out of the country, having left a week ago to attend a business conference in London.

Without wasting a moment, Howard rushed back to the mansion, his mind racing with worry. What if he had misremembered, and the keys weren’t under the chair? Or worse, what if one of the workers had found them and taken them? He couldn’t bear the thought of facing Ola and admitting he had lost her keys. How would that make him look in her eyes? A business partner who had just received the keys to his new place, only to lose them in less than a month. More like a careless teenager or an absolute fool who couldn’t be trusted with any responsibility.

Breathless and panting, Howard arrived at the mansion, having sprinted the entire way. The darkness enveloped the mansion and yard, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon in the night sky.

Howard’s heart raced as he approached the mansion porch, his fingers trailing beneath each of the three patio cushions. Shadows danced around him in the moonlight, adding to his growing apprehension. With each cushion he checked, his tension mounted, fear gripping him tighter. Then, beneath the final cushion, his fingertips met the cool touch of metal. A wave of relief flooded through him as he grasped the keys, giving them a jingle before tucking them securely into his overalls’ bib pocket and giving it a reassuring pat.

As Howard turned to head back home, the wide-open, heavy oak front door of the mansion caught his attention. It struck him as odd—Annie, Isaac and the rest of Ola’s house staff did not look like the careless type. Howard approached the doorway cautiously and was met with the unmistakable sound of objects being rummaged through and scattered about. A burglary was in progress. He was sure of it; and judging from the noise, he figured it had to be one perpetrator. Burglaries in this area were certainly not out of the question, despite the wealthy and powerful residents. Howard believed these residents were easy targets for those who knew what they were doing.

Howard entered the mansion, tip-toeing up on the left double staircase and being careful not to make any noise. The flickering lights emanating from Ola’s room provided the only illumination in the otherwise pitch black residence, guiding his path as he moved cautiously upstairs.

As Howard ascended the stairway and reached the doorway leading into Ola’s room, his eyes widened at the sight before him. A lanky figure stood with his back turned, wielding a flashing light and rifling through the contents of an open wardrobe. Clothes and other items were carelessly tossed aside, littering the floor. Without a moment’s hesitation, Howard flicked on the room lights and charged towards the intruder, his voice filled with fury. “Fucking thiefman!”

The figure spun around, eyes filled with terror, as a hairy-faced man with a noticeable gap in his teeth bore down on him, arms outstretched. The figure, now revealed as a man in the light, screamed desperately, “Howard, it’s me! It’s me!”

Howard seized the man by his white collar, intending to hoist him into the air, only to tear the collar off in his fervor. Staggering back, the man regained his balance and darted towards the doorway. Just as he neared escape, a sudden force jerked him backward, spinning him forcefully around to face the enraged Howard.

“Howard, it’s me!” the man screamed again, putting his hands up. “Joseph! It’s Joseph!”

“Joseph?” Howard thought, registering the man’s words. He looked into the man’s frightened eyes and then his features, freezing in disbelief. It was Joseph, the young driver with a baby face whom Ola had recently hired after letting go of her old driver, Alpha. Howard noted the telltale black suit, white dress shirt, and black tie Joseph had worn earlier that day when chauffeuring Ola’s household and children, albeit with the shirt collar now missing.

“Joseph,” Howard said, his voice tinged with bewilderment, yet he maintained a firm grip on Joseph’s jacket. “What... what are you doi—”

“We can split whatever we find,” Joseph said in a high pitched voice. “Fifty-Fifty.”

“What?” Howard asked, tilting his head slightly. “What are you saying, man?”

“The Bosslady. She got some expensive things here. Wherever, we find, we can spli—”

Howard shook Joseph and pushed him to the ground. He pointed his finger at the young man. “You little shit! If you think I am going to steal from the Madam, you must be fucking crazy. You are not going anywhere but to the police. I don’t care if I have to drag your ass there.”

Joseph sprang up and clung to Howard’s legs. “Howard, please, please. Beat me like a dog. But don’t take me to the police. I will leave tonight. You will never see me around here.”

Howard felt his anger waning as the young man held tight onto his legs, groveling. “You were young once,” he thought to himself. Only he and God knew the depths of his past transgressions. He sighed. “Get up, Joseph.”

Joseph released his arms around Howard’s ankles; he rose slowly until he was looking the older man in the eyes. 

“Howard, please,” Joseph said, still pleading. “Don’t take me to the police. Mi papa is sick. I needed money to pay the hospital.”

Howard could see tears welling up in Joseph’s eyes. He really was a kid after all: soft curly hair, a round smooth face, clean-shaven with dimples. Howard took a deep breath, thinking about himself 30 years ago when he first set foot on MIT’s campus. As he exhaled, he felt all the anger inside of him coming out. 

“Listen,” he said, pointing and wagging his finger at Joseph. “I’m not involving the police this time. But if I catch you doing anything like this again, they’ll be the least of your worries.”

“Oh thank you, thank you so much, Howard. Never. I would never do it again. You are a good man. Really good man.” With his hands in his pockets, Joseph lowered his head and walked towards the doorway. However, before he could exit the room, he felt a sudden force pulling him back.

“You are not going anywhere until you first clean up the mess you made. Just the way you found it.”

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Share Josephine Dean

It was springtime when I found her. I remembered it because the weather was warm and I was sweating like a pig beneath the weight of my winter clothing—the only clothing I owned, including an oversized trench coat.

On that day, I roamed the streets of Cambridge, still in search of Al. It had been over a year since she vanished from my life: since we were last together. Unbeknownst to me, my wandering led me back to the very coffee shop where our paths first crossed.

As I walked by the shop, a glint of blonde hair grabbed my attention. Then, in my peripheral vision, I spotted a woman with long, blonde hair flowing down and stopping just below her shoulders. It wasn’t her hair that drew my gaze. It was the pink mark, circling her left eye.

With my heart racing like a sprinter at the finish line, I pressed my face against the coffee shop window, my breath fogging the glass. There she was, the woman with the long, blonde hair. My beloved. After all these days, weeks and months, I finally found her. I could hardly believe my eyes.

Without a second thought, I burst through the door and yelled. “Al! Thank God!”

Al’s eyes widened as she turned to face me. I took in every detail of her appearance, starting from toe to head, from her black high heels to the elegant light green dress that hugged her curves. Her face was a portrait of beauty, with cherry red lipstick highlighting her lips. A rosy cheek on one side, while that distinctive pink birthmark on the other, encircling that unforgettable blue moon eye. She looked stunning, like one of those models you see on the billboards in the city or in magazines. 

Contrast to me, there was no comparison whatsoever. With messy, unkempt dreadlocks, a bushy beard, scars and several missing teeth, I bore the full brunt of the hard life on the streets. Dressed in an oversized trench coat over loose-fitting black sweatpants and a sweater, paired with a slightly open-toe sneaker on one foot and a walking medical boot on the other. I looked more like a wild bushman or, more fittingly, a homeless pirate. It was no wonder she was shocked. Heck, I’d be shocked too if I were her.

“Al, it’s me,” I said to her. “It’s Howie. Howard.” She remained silent, her widened eyes fixed on me, her face now white like paper.

“Allison,” I called out to her, using her full name. “It’s Howard. Do you remember?” But before she could respond, another voice echoed in the distance, calling out to Al—not as “Al” or “Allison.”

“Allie, Allie.” The distant voice grew nearer and louder until a man appeared next to Al. I sized him up right away: shorter than me by about five inches, with combed-over blonde hair slightly darker than Al’s. He wore a fitted navy blue suit with a red tie, the jacket buttoned in the middle. He quickly glanced at me with his sharp green eyes before looking back at Al.

“Allie, everything okay?” he asked her, wrapping his left hand around her hips.

In that moment, rage surged through me as I considered the possibility that the man might be a threat to Al, perhaps even her kidnapper. That would explain her shock and silence. I clenched my fists, ready to punch the man and grab Al’s hand as we made a getaway out of the shop. Just as I was about to step forward and land a blow on his jaw, the man said something to Al that made me relax my fist. “Babe, are you okay?”

“Babe?” I thought to myself. What did he mean by that? Al was my babe. I stared at her, trying to make sense of what I just heard. I looked deep into that blue moon eye, the one that always reflected her feelings for me. But there was no glow like when I used to express my love for her or share my dreams and aspirations for our future, together. Nothing but dullness like dark clouds covering the moon.

“Al?” I tried to say, but no words came out of my lips. I looked desperately at her, hoping she could understand my silent plea. “Al, what’s he talking about? Please answer.” And then I saw the look: hiding in plain sight, yet I chose to ignore it. It was a look I could never have imagined her directing at me in a million years. The same look that I received from commuters on their way to work or from passersby when I asked for spare change. It was a look of rejection mixed with…shame. 

“What’s the matter, Babe?” the man said, pulling Al closer. She didn’t resist, leaning into him…away from me. 

Then, as if someone had opened my chest and ripped out of my heart, Al placed her hand on the man’s chest, revealing a gleaming diamond on her ring finger.

“Hey man,” the guy snapped his fingers at me. “We have no money to give today.”

Reflecting on it now, I could picture the entire shop witnessing our little scene unfold. They probably tuned in the moment I barged in, screaming Al’s name and making a scene. How else would that beat cop suddenly appear out of thin air? He must’ve strolled in later for his morning coffee and noticed all eyes on us. Naturally, he decided to step in and defuse what he saw as a potential threat: the homeless black pirate.

He walked over, hands on waist. “Come on, buddy. You know the rules. No panhandling here. Let’s go.” With that, he pointed towards the door and began nudging me in that direction. It felt like my body was on autopilot, my legs carrying me toward the exit despite my attempts to resist. I struggled to turn back, but the cop’s hand was already firmly planted on my back, urging me onward. I managed to steal one last glance at Al, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she looked away, head down.

To be honest with you Madam, after that day, I became a drunkard. Drinking was my only solution to wash out any memories of Al. When I was sober, the memories of Al were too intense as they hit me like a freight train. Thus, I made it a habit not to stay sober. 2 hours without a drink was too long, and it felt like my head was going to explode. 

And I tried other vices to numb the pain besides alcohol. Hard drugs like cocaine, heroin, and PCP all offered temporary relief, but nothing could replace the alcohol. 

Alcohol consumed my thoughts every minute, and I found myself drunk throughout the day. When I ran out of money for drinks, I became a menace to society. It began with petty crimes like stealing from stores and picking pockets to fund my drinking habit. But soon, I found myself involved in more serious crimes like breaking into homes and joining a local gang to mug people. Sometimes we beat our victims to pulp or until they sustained injuries to go to the hospital. Most of the times when I committed these crimes, I was drunk out of my mind.

It was the darkest chapter of my life. Alcohol turned me into a completely different person: a brute with no regards for feelings. You wouldn’t recognize me drunk, Madam. You wouldn’t want to be near me.

My life of crime came to an abrupt end when I gained notoriety for targeting vulnerable elderly women, snatching their purses from them and taking off. Again, the darkest chapter of my life. 

It happened so fast one day. I was wandering the streets, drunk but not too drunk that I could not function. I spotted what I thought was an easy target—an elderly woman hobbling down the street and clutching her black purse. Little did I know, she was an undercover cop, cleverly disguised as a frail old lady. As I reached for her purse, she whipped out a badge, and before I knew it, 10 cops with their guns drawn surrounded me.

Strangely, deep down, I felt a sense of relief when I got caught. It felt as if someone had lifted a weight off my shoulders. For so long, I’d been spiraling out of control, drowning in my own sorrows. At the rate I was going, it wouldn’t have been long before I ended up killing someone, which was something I could never forgive myself. It would have haunted me for the rest of my life. Being caught was a blessing in disguise.

I expected to face trial and sentencing for my crimes, but to my surprise, I was handed off to the custody of US Immigration. Before I knew it, a federal agent shackled me ankle to ankle, and we boarded a plane en route to Mama Africa. I was not only deported, but also permanently banned from ever stepping foot on any American soil.

All that my parents had worked for me, I had taken and thrown it all away. For what? Over a girl who ended up not loving me. If only I could turn back time…If only…I could go back.

Ola observed the tears trickling down Howard’s cheeks, collecting in the empty soda bottle resting on the ground underneath him. Each drop seemed to carry a piece of pain, filling the bottle with a well of sorrow.

At that moment, she did something unexpected and uncharacteristic. Something that caused everyone’s mouths to open, from her driver Joseph to her house girl Annie, to the work crew in the yard.

Without a second thought, she rose from her chair and approached Howard, his bare torso soaking with sweat under the unforgiving sun. Ignoring any hesitation and reservation, she wrapped her arms around him.

Howard froze, unsure of how to respond. Yet, as he sensed the comforting warmth of Ola’s embrace and caught the floral fragrance of her perfume, he lost it. He wrapped his arms around her, surrendering to the solace she offered. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, soaking Ola’s white blouse. It felt as though a protective cocoon enveloped his cold and battered heart. For the first time in a long time, Howard felt loved.

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Share Josephine Dean

The encounter with the police shed light on how little I knew about Al, especially the crucial details. The police were my first resort in the search for her, banking on their expertise in locating the missing.

In the precinct, facing the tired eyes of a white, middle-aged officer, I failed miserably. Basic questions about Al stumped me: her middle name (if she even had one), her last name, the full names of her parents, and even her birthplace escaped my grasp. I guessed her birthplace was Boston, but specifics about which town or neighborhood she grew up eluded me. As for her past addresses and employers before our time together, they were complete mysteries.

What I could offer were physical descriptions—her height, weight, hair color, eye color, and her distinct birthmark. However, the officer already had enough of me before we even got to those details. Imagine being in his shoes: a black man with Rastafarian dreadlocks, now resembling tangled seaweed, his face marked by multiple missing front teeth and a busted lip, ran into your precinct, frantically reporting his blonde-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend was missing. Would you believe such a tale? Would you even believe he had a girlfriend in the first place, especially when he couldn’t provide basic information about her? There were a lot of homeless crazies roaming around in the city, and how could I expect to be perceived as any different from them.

Truth be told, if the roles were reversed and I was the one missing, Al wouldn’t do much better. We never dwelled on the past or discussed such trivial details; our focus was on building a happy present and future together. She was simply “my Al,” and I was to her, “my Howie.” Love was our foundation, and that was all we needed to build a life with one another. There was no point in digging up old family traumas or reopening old wounds.

I tried to tell the officer that it would help to find Al faster if they used a sketch artist, but he didn’t want to hear it. He said they had everything they needed and would “look into it.” Before leaving, I reiterated the physical descriptions of Al once more. “Got it all down,” he claimed confidently. But I could see he hardly wrote anything in his police report.

With the police not much help, I came to the conclusion that I would have to look for Al myself. That didn’t come as a surprise to me. I’d felt this was a foregone conclusion long before my search for her began.

Each morning, I’d start my mission at the Boston Public Library, meticulously planning my day’s route on a map of the entire metropolis region I’d torn from a library reference book. I marked each neighborhood and town I’d already scoured with a big red “X,” determined not to miss a single corner. Not to mention, every week, I went back to old familiar spots Al and I frequented: the coffee shop where we first met, the record shop, Chinatown, our favorite parks, the Port (usually during the day so as not to encounter JJ) and even my old university, MIT. I also stay connected with Al’s old roommate and friends, who promised to let me know of any lead information or new information regarding her disappearance or appearance.

My search took me to places I never imagined I’d tread. I ventured into the country parts outside the city and the roughest neighborhoods within it. It was the roughest neighborhoods where I had the most trouble. Venturing into them, I usually ended up being robbed of what little I had and even beaten when I had nothing to offer. The scars from those beatings are still with me to this very day.

One event from that time still sticks out clearly in my mind. It wasn’t like the usual robberies; instead, it ended up with me getting beaten pretty badly. I was in a rough part of town when I spotted a confused-looking woman on a street corner. Even though I couldn’t see her face well from where I was standing, my heart skipped a beat because she looked a lot like Al: short blonde hair, small build, and wide hips. Without hesitating, I hurried across the street toward her. But just as I got close, she took off running. Fueled by the hope that it might be Al, I chased after her like there was no tomorrow, finally catching her near a rundown old building. That’s when she turned around, and to my disappointment, she didn’t look anything like Al: just a plain pale face with hazel eyes, and no birthmark. 

Regrettably, I wasn’t aware of someone else pursuing us. He was accompanying the woman, but I didn’t realize it then, nor did I have time to piece it together. All I remembered was feeling a sudden, intense pain in the back of my head, causing me to fall flat onto the hard street pavement, and everything went dark. When I came to consciousness, I found myself staring down the barrel of a shiny gold pistol. Positioned in front of the woman, as like a protector, was a man dressed in a flashy pink suit and fur coat, gripping the gun tightly.

“Try that shit again, player, and I blow your head out,” he said to me, revealing a row of perfect white teeth and one gold tooth in front. “No free rides out here. You pay my ladies first and then you can play.” He spat on the ground before turning around and walking off with his “lady.”

The pain was excruciating. My right ankle throbbed, swollen to the size of a golf ball, a deep shade of purple beneath my touch. Blood filled my mouth, and as I gently probed with my tongue, I felt the empty spaces where a row of five bottom teeth used to be. Adding the incident with JJ, that’s how I got the big gap in my beautiful smile today.

At that moment, I wished the man had just shot me. I’d been looking for Al everywhere, but I had found no sign of her: not a trace and not a clue. I started to think maybe she was dead, and if she was, then what was the point of me searching? At least by being shot dead, I could reunite with her in the afterlife. 

But then, as soon as my mind ran to this thought, a little voice interrupted in my head: “what if she’s alive?” The thought was unbearable to think about. If she was out there somewhere, lost and alone, I was her only lifeline. I couldn’t abandon her, not now, never.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I pushed myself upright, wincing at the pain that shot through my ankle with each movement. Unable to bear weight on both legs, I hobbled forward, relying mainly on my left leg for support and to drag myself along. Later, I would scavenge an old cane from a dumpster, which helped me walk better.

For four seasons, through snow, rain, sunshine, and wind, I searched tirelessly like a mad bloodhound for her. In every city, town, neighborhood and street, I was there, searching. During that time, I had horrible bouts of pneumonia and typhus. I even almost lost my right foot because of neglect of care. The swelling had gotten so bad that I couldn’t wear a shoe. Instead, I fashioned a special foot brace from plenty duct tape, and paper rolls from public bathrooms. With my right foot exposed to the elements, particularly the cold, it felt numb, like dragging a dead log. Thankfully, a street acquaintance directed me to a free clinic where I received treatment and a new medical boot.

Regardless, injuries and illness never stopped me from looking for Al. I never missed not one day looking for her. 

“Did you find her?” Ola asked, leaning forward eagerly.

A trio of birds flew in front of Howard, drawing his attention. He watched them as they pecked at each other, then settled down on a nearby tree momentarily before flying off and pecking at each other again. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

“Three little birds,” he said, his voice barely audible. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his head.

Observing Howard, Ola settled back in her chair. She could tell it was hard for him and certainly did not want to seem pushy. Whether he decided to confide in her was entirely up to him, and she respected his boundaries. “These things are never easy to talk about,” she thought. 

Several minutes passed in silence before Howard lifted his head, rubbing his face wearily with both hands. “This life, huh?” he said, then abruptly began massaging his thighs.

“Mmm hmmm,” Ola responded softly.

“Sorry Madam,” Howard said, now vigorously rubbing his thighs. “I told no one this story, certainly not this part.”

“It’s okay, Howard. You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready.”

“No,” Howard said firmly, clapping his hands together. “It’s important I talk. These things are not good for the body to keep in for so long. To answer your question, I did find her. I only wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t.”

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It was early December, either the first or second week—I couldn’t recall the exact date. The events of that day were so hectic that the details surrounding Al’s disappearance remained a hazy mess in my memory. 

It was early morning, around the time the sun was coming up. I had just finished my night shift and arrived home, but Al was not there. It was unusual for her not to be waiting for me when I came home from work, as she always did. Initially, I brushed it off, thinking she might have stepped out for something. Perhaps she went to the grocery store to buy items for a surprise breakfast or was shopping for my gift for the upcoming holiday. But as time passed, my concern grew. An hour went by, then two, and still no sign of her. Panic crept in, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread gnawing at my insides.

After about two and a half hours had passed, I grabbed my port safety jacket and set out to search for her. The thought of Al being crushed by a shipping container or caught in the path of a crane filled me with terror. I scoured every corner of the port, but there was no trace of her.

After searching all over the port, I felt a little sense of relief. If there had been a fatal accident, the chaos and commotion at the port would have been unmistakable. That everything seemed calm only fueled my anxiety further. Where could she be?

My next choice was to go into the city and search for her. Every corner, every alleyway, held the potential of a clue, a sign of her whereabouts. After several hours of combing through our familiar spots—the grocery stores, parks, subways, alleyways, and our favorite Chinese restaurant in Chinatown—I found myself no closer to finding her. As the sun set, casting long shadows across the city streets, my desperation grew. Tears were pouring down my cheeks as full panic gripped my heart like a boa constrictor. 

Finally, defeated and exhausted, I made my way back home to the port. My last hope was to wait for JJ to start his night shift at 11 pm. Maybe somehow, he had seen her or could help me with forming a search party.

As I waited for JJ, the gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach refused to leave me. What if she was kidnapped or, worse, robbed and shot in some alleyway? She could be lying there and bleeding to death, all alone. That was a thought I could not stomach. To combat the fear and take my mind elsewhere, I decided to drink a bottle of beer. But one bottle turned into many, and before long, I succumbed to the drunken stupor of alcohol. It was a decision I would later come to regret, for it was the primary cause of my falling out with JJ.

It was almost midnight when I woke up: my heart was pounding like a beating drum. Without a moment’s hesitation, I rushed towards the main dock, paying no mind to the scent of alcohol on my breath. There, I found JJ, his hulking figure barely visible in the dim port light, and I launched into a flood of questions about Al’s whereabouts.

“JJ, have you seen her? Al, she’s missing. Did you see her? Did any of your men see her this morning? Did you see her last night?” My voice trembled with desperation, echoing in the dock.

But JJ’s response was a punch to the gut. “Slow down Howard. Slow down. Al’s missing?”

“She’s gone, JJ!” I exclaimed, my hands trembling as I clutched my head. “All day! I thought you might’ve seen her.”

JJ’s voice remained calm. “Did you guys have a fight? Maybe she just needed some space, man. Women here do that sometimes. You know, to clear their heads.”

Al and I never had a major argument. A little silly banter here and there, but never a full-blown argument. JJ’s insinuation felt like a disrespect. Worse, his calm demeanor irritated me even more. I just lost control. I did not know what I was thinking. He was a grown man. Again, being a youth and all its naivety.

I charged at him like a wild beast, grabbing his vest and violently shaking it as I screamed in his face. “We never had a fuckin argument! You promised it would be safe here! You fucking promised!”

At first, JJ seemed scared. I could see it in his eyes. Fear flashed in them, but then his expression quickly shifted, revealing an anger I’d never seen before, not even in my own father’s most furious moments. It was a wicked, cold-blooded anger that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I tried to release my hands from his vest, but it was too late. He seized my wrists like a vise grip and, in one swift motion before I had time to react, picked me up, slamming me onto the concrete. My thick dreads cushioned the impact, sparing my life, but I was left with a bloody mouth, a busted lip, and four missing teeth.

“Pack your ass and get out!” he shouted at me, shaking his clenched fists. “Tomorrow morning, if I catch you and that bitch here, I’m calling the police. Trespassing dogs! You lucky this country has a law!”

As I stumbled back to the shipping container, the weight of the world seemed to crush down on me. Every step felt like I was slogging through thick mud, dragging my weary body along. Gathering whatever possessions I could hold—a handful of blankets, my suitcase, Al’s backpack filled with her belongings, and my trusted bicycle—I ventured into the heart of the city.

The freezing rain pelted down, stinging my skin as I sought refuge from the elements. Finally, I found shelter in a commercial garbage bin tucked away in an alley. With trembling hands, I closed the lid to shield myself from the biting icy rain. Tears and snot ran down my face uncontrollably as I imagined Al out there somewhere: her little body vulnerable to the unforgiving weather.

Despite my best efforts to banish the negative thoughts and drift into sleep, they persisted, haunting my mind like the relentless storm raging outside. It wasn’t until I reached for some of Al’s clothes from her backpack that a sense of solace enveloped me. Her garments provided warmth and a familiar scent that evoked memories of her cute squeaky laughter and radiant smile, which eased my troubled mind enough to finally rest.

The next morning, I emerged from my shelter with a renewed determination. But my heart sank as I discovered that my bicycle, a vital means of transportation, had been stolen during the night. Yet, undeterred by this minor setback, I set out on foot, determined to search every corner of the city—if I have to—until I found my beloved.

As I trekked through the city streets, my stomach twisted with an intense ache that grew with each step. About half an hour into my journey, a sudden wave of nausea surged through me, and I found myself doubled over in agony, vomiting uncontrollably onto the sidewalk. It was then that the reality hit me—I had eaten nothing since Al’s disappearance. My stomach was rebelling against the emptiness filled only with alcohol.

I made a detour to search for food in the garbage cans lining the sidewalk. After rummaging through the first can, I stumbled upon a half-eaten apple. As I devoured it, a compassionate black woman, roughly my mother’s age and complexion, approached me with a look of concern. She offered me her entire breakfast bagel, a gesture of kindness that touched my troubled heart deeply. Amidst the darkness, kindness still existed in this world.

Gratefully accepting her offering, I thanked her profusely for her kindness. She then asked if I needed any spare change, offering me about $5 and some pennies. Her question made me remember I needed to return to work to collect my final pay and inform them of my resignation. My mind was completely consumed with thoughts of Al, and I knew I couldn’t focus on work while she was still missing. I needed to direct all my energy and attention to finding her, whatever the cost.

As I stepped into the slaughterhouse to collect my final pay, I was met right away by my boss, a hefty, balding white fellow. I detected hostility in his eyes. Confusion swept over me as he spoke, his words cutting me like a knife. 

“I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong job. We don’t hire illegals here,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain.

I tried to make sense of what was happening. My boss and I always got along well, and I never encountered any issues at work. I was a good employee. He often even complimented me as a “quick learner.”

“Bill, what do you mean?” I asked him, thinking he was mistaking me with someone else. “I am Howard. You hired me already.”

“WE.DON’T.HIRE.ILLEGALS.HERE,” he said, clenching his teeth. Bill wasn’t making a mistake. His anger was directed squarely at me. But why?

Desperation clawed at me as I pleaded with Bill to at least pay me what I was owed, and I would be on my way. But he remained adamant, his anger mounting with each passing moment. “Get your illegal ass out of here before I call immigration!” he finally shouted after my constant pleading. His face was twisted with rage.

Everyone at the facility stopped what they were doing and looked at us with shock and curiosity—everyone except Archie. He was standing not too far behind Bill. I caught sight of him lurking behind a hooked meat carcass, a smirk playing across his lips. In that moment, it all clicked into place. Archie must have learned from JJ about our altercation. Being the loyal friend that he was, he sabotaged my job by feeding lies to our boss.

I harbored no malice towards Archie; if anything, I understood his actions. My disappointment was directed inward—I couldn’t help but feel I had brought this upon myself. Realizing Bill would not have a change of heart, I turned and walked away, knowing that I had not only lost my final pay but also my means of sustenance that would have lasted me at least two weeks. Now, I had to look for Al in addition to hunting for food and battling hunger. 

To be honest, my mindset was all for it. Finding Al was my singular focus. If that meant resorting to living off the land, as they used to say, then so be it. I was a soldier on a mission: a mission to find her or rescue her if needed.

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I could not tell you exactly how I failed my semester. Everything was foggy. One thing for sure, I recalled spending more time with Al than with my studies. With her, I discovered the ins and outs of Boston: its neighborhoods and surrounding towns. She would take me to different areas to countless parties, hosted by her friends. We would sing reggae together, dance , drink, smoke marijuana, a lot of marijuana, and, afterwards, would go to her place, where we would sleep together a lot like rabbits. The only time I ever set foot in my dorm room was near the end of the semester, where I came across a stack of urgent notes from my academic advisor. These notes pertained to my parents and, particularly, their demands that I should “call them at once!”

It was through my parents that I learned about my academic failure for the semester and how I failed: not attending a single class. Prior to calling, my plan was to keep quiet like I normally had done before and let them do all the talking. That was supposed to be the plan. 

Upon dialing, my mother picked up the phone after the first tone and, without exchanging any pleasantries, proceeded to blast me with her sweet voice and biting sarcasms. I was the son “scamming them out of their hard earned money” and one who was doing something that I was “finally more than average at,” making them “shameful parents.” I expected all of this from her, but what caught me off guard was the raw anger in her voice. Still, I stayed silent and listened as usual.

My father, on the other hand, was far angrier and did not mince his words with sarcasms. After my mother had said her piece, he took the phone and cussed me all the names he knew under the sun, even cussing me in his mother’s tongue. His anger made his nasal voice even more pronounced, making it difficult for me to remain silent compared to my mother's words. It felt like each word was a punch to the ear through the phone. I fought to keep my composure, but frustration surged within me.

"Mary, I bet this whole thing is all over some stupid asshole girl." That blew me up. I took it as a direct insult to Al. He hadn't even met her, hadn't seen her warm smile or her inviting eyes. He hadn't experienced her nonjudgmental nature or known how easy she was to talk to. Yet, he felt he had the right to insult her.

“So what the fuck it is!” I remembered yelling over the phone. I remembered there was a brief, deafening silence after I spoke, so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Mind you, at this point, I was no longer the same Howard that my parents were used to talking down to. They were exposed to a rude awakening. A different Howard who had long thick dreadlocks that stopped at his knees and who could look you directly in the eye and cussed you out like a seaman.

“Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you. 

“Bite me.” I had answered him and hung up. That was the last time I talked to my parents. I had many regrets in life and this was among the top ones. Looking back now, I probably should not have done what I did. First off, I probably should have called them when I was off sound mind or sober. I also underestimated how cold and unforgiving my parents could be, and how far they would go to maintain their family's image. I had two younger brothers and a toddler age sister. When I did not take that next plane back home, my parents, as far as they were concerned, still had a legacy that they could build up and make their name proud, even after they left this world. I was the first child: the mistake and experiment that they could learn from when rearing up my siblings.

Not surprisingly, I was kicked out of MIT as my parents did not pay for my next semester’s schooling. I did not care at the time. At least, I had my Al and she was nice enough to offer rooming to my bicycle, suitcase and I. We were officially together under one roof. Only this was not to be permanent. 

About a month after moving in with Al, we found ourselves in a situation where we couldn't afford the rent and had to move out. Al had lost her job a few weeks earlier because she showed up to it high, a decision I blamed myself for since I had encouraged us to attend a party the previous night.

Living with Al's friends was initially a relief, a temporary solution to our housing predicament. But as the days turned into weeks, we began to overstay our welcome. Our presence became a burden, straining the patience and resources of those free spirits who had graciously taken us in. Eventually, we found ourselves with no place to call home, facing the harsh reality of homelessness.

During this period, finding work proved to be a near impossible challenge. Despite my best efforts, no employer wanted to even touch me. It was then that I truly understood my immigration status on a student visa and the obstacles it presented to securing employment. Until then, I had never considered or entertained such thoughts, leaving them up to my parents.

The idea of marrying Al for a green card never even crossed my mind. I refused to burden her with my problems or pressure her into such a life-altering decision. One way or the other way, I was going to find a solution on my own.

Though it looked like a grim reality check, strangely enough, Al and I were the happiest when we were homelessness. Freed from the burdens of parental or societal expectations, we embraced our status as free birds in the city, viewing it as our own personal playground.

If there was no luck at the soup kitchens, we would scavenge food from trash bins by restaurants. Surprisingly, we often stumbled upon untouched treasures like whole pizzas, pieces of chicken wings, discarded birthday cakes (often anniversary cakes), pies, and many other items. People's wastefulness became a lifeline for us, and we were deeply thankful for it.

Beyond mere survival, we reveled in the adventure of exploring the city's hidden corners. From navigating the labyrinthine subway tracks to stumbling upon alleys adorned with vibrant street art to sneaking into buildings with magnificent views of the city’s skyline, every discovery fueled our sense of wonder and curiosity. And we certainly were not shy to fool around in all these places as no place in the city was safe from our escapades: not the museums and not even the stadium.

But even with all the craziness and unpredictability, the most important thing about being homeless was the bond we shared. I fondly recall the nights spent huddled together under the stars in quiet parks, wrapped in blankets and sharing our dreams. Al wanted to go back to school to pursue nursing, while I had ambitions of completing my engineering degree at a community college. With that qualification, I hoped to secure a well-paying job that could sponsor both of us, paving the way for us to settle in a cozy home in the suburbs. There, we could begin our journey of building a family together. Each time I shared my dreams with Al, her left blue moon eye seemed to radiate with an illuminating glow, serving as a source of hope and strengthening my determination to believe that anything was possible.

Eventually, I managed to secure employment the other way: under the table at a slaughterhouse. But even with a steady income, my wages were barely enough to cover our basic needs, let alone secure permanent housing. However, luck seemed to smile upon us in an unexpected way.

At the slaughterhouse, I crossed paths with a fellow countryman named Archie, who had faced similar challenges with work status. Our shared nationality sparked instant camaraderie, and Archie eagerly offered his assistance upon learning about our homelessness. He revealed that he had a friend at the Port of Boston who could help us find shelter in one of the abandoned shipping containers there.

Archie assured me that living in a shipping container wasn't as bad as it sounded, sharing his own experience of finding temporary refuge in one upon arriving in America. He explained that as the weather cooled with the onset of fall, we wouldn't have to endure the sweltering heat of summer. However, he advised us to prepare for the winter chill with plenty of blankets and, even better, a portable heater. Despite its unconventional nature, it was a far better option than braving the elements out on the streets.

As Archie led Al and I through the lively Port of Boston, I couldn't shake the feeling of gratitude for his unexpected generosity. Here was a man who did not know me from Adam and was offering to help me and my woman, with no payment or strings attached. 

We soon arrived at a secluded corner, where Archie introduced us to his friend, JJ. JJ was a short, stocky man with large muscular arms, a stark contrast to Archie's tall and malnourished skinny frame. Despite their physical differences, JJ exuded friendliness and kindness, much like Archie. He welcomed Al and I very warmly. Hence the reason, I could never forgive myself for what I did to him. That was also one of my biggest life regrets.

 With a nod from JJ, we followed him to an abandoned shipping container nestled away from prying eyes. It was a hidden gem, shielded from the outside world by stacks of cargo containers. JJ assured us that it was a safe haven, far from the scrutiny of port workers.

As we settled into our new home, JJ's kindness continued to shine through. He provided us with port safety jackets, ensuring we could blend in seamlessly with the workers. He even offered his assistance if we encountered any issues, emphasizing that he was always available at the main loading dock during his night shifts.

The shipping container began to feel more like home with each passing day. Thanks to Archie and JJ's assistance, we were able to transport an old mattress, dresser, and milk crates— repurposed as shelves— from various junk sites and donation bins using JJ's cargo van. Despite the simplicity of our accommodations, the mere presence of these familiar items filled us with tremendous joy as we finally had a place to call our home.

Al's creative touch transformed the interior, adorning it with artificial bouquets she had found at a dump site. The vibrant colors breathed life into our makeshift home, infusing it with warmth and charm.

As we settled into our newfound sanctuary, a wave of relief washed over us. For the first time in months, we felt a sense of stability and security. With our basic needs finally met, we could now turn our attention to our goals for the future.

Eager to continue my education, I made plans to dedicate myself to finishing my engineering degree once the upcoming winter months had passed. Little did I know at the time that my student visa had already been canceled, making this goal completely impossible. Being a youth and all its naivety. 

However, I never got the chance to find out about my visa status or even make the attempt to finish my education. At the start of winter, Al went missing.

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