Chapter 4:

From that day, I just lose myself.

Everywhere I go, shadow of Ifedike dey follow me. I dey see am for mirror, dey hear him laugh for bathroom. I no dey sleep well, nightmare dey chase me.

I no fit accept say small pikin like that go die because of me.

I dey blame myself every day. I dey see him slippers, him lunch box, I dey cry. Neighbours don tire to check on me.

Even if na stranger, I for no fit bear am.

If I hear say e happen to another, I go feel am deep. But this one, e dey burn my soul.

Talk less of my own blood.

My son, my only son. The wound too deep. I dey reason say maybe na punishment for my own past sin.

I just dey waka like person wey dey fear to make mistake again.

If I wan cross road, I dey double check. For work, I no dey take decision again. Even to buy yam for market, I dey ask three times.

For work, for house, na guilt and fear dey follow me everywhere.

People for office dey whisper, 'That man never recover.' My boss even reduce my work, say make I rest. House dey empty, only cockroach dey run about.

Aunty Halima sef no fit take am, she give me divorce paper.

She come one day, face strong, say, 'I no fit do again. Every day, na blame, na sorrow.' I sign the paper, my hand dey shake.

“I be sinner. Nothing to let go.”

Na wetin I dey tell myself. I dey look mirror, dey see man wey sin big sin. No prayer fit wash am away.

As my ex-wife ask me with pity, I just shake head.

Her eye dey beg me, but I no fit even face am. I dey look ground.

All these years, she never marry again.

People don try pair her, but she dey reject. She say she no ready. Na only work dey give her joy small.

After she cry tire for more than six months, she just bury herself for work.

She begin volunteer for children home, dey feed street pikin. I hear say she dey donate cloth, dey organize event. Na her own way to heal.

Now, she don make small name for herself as NGO worker.

Her photo dey appear for newspaper sometimes. She dey wear green vest, dey share food for IDP camp. People dey respect her.

Every year, she go call me come this café—this one wey dey beside the old cybercafé—hoping say I go fit face life again.

She dey try. She go text, 'Come out, breathe small.' Na here we dey always meet, beside the old café. She dey order coffee, I dey look street. She dey pray say I go find peace.

But for me, e no dey work.

No matter wetin she do, my heart still dey for that day. Even if we talk from now till tomorrow, e no go heal.

Every time I sit down for that street, na the same memory dey play for my mind.

I fit close eye, still see fire, still hear Ifedike voice. The street never change, people still dey waka as before. But my own world stop.

If no be me, my son for still dey alive?

I dey ask myself every day. The guilt stubborn pass yam.