Chapter 2: Returned to the Scene of the Lie

I slowly opened my eyes. Sunlight shone through the wooden window, warming my face.

The scent of fresh harmattan dust and fried akara from the roadside mingled in the air, and the sound of birds outside reminded me of those rare mornings before everything changed.

"Abi I don die finish? This place na heaven so?"

My own voice startled me, sounding younger and lighter than I remembered. I reached for my neck—no pain. My skin felt smooth again, not wrinkled from long sickness.

I sat up quickly, surprised to find my body felt so light.

I flexed my fingers, checking if this was all a dream. The ache was gone, replaced by a strange energy. I looked around—the same woven mats, the same faded curtains Mama had insisted on buying at the market.

"Young madam, you’re awake! Let me help you dress. Today is the first Sunday of the month—you should go and greet Mama."

Ifeoma’s voice was clearer, less tired. She wore her hair in tight plaits, face full of hope. It dawned on me that she was just a girl again, not yet worn down by years of hardship.

Looking at Ifeoma in front of me, she looked… much younger.

Her cheeks were round, eyes bright, her back still straight. I stared at her as if seeing a ghost, my heart jumping in my chest.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. I reached out and touched the mud wall, feeling the rough grain beneath my palm. My voice dropped to a whisper: "Olodumare, is this your doing?"

I rushed to the old mirror.

My reflection was that of a girl—just married, hopeful, strong. I ran my fingers over my face, almost not believing the smooth skin, the full cheeks.

Ifeoma was shocked.

She dropped the pile of wrappers in her arms, mouth open in surprise. "Aunty, are you alright? You dey shake."

I asked her anxiously, “What year and month be this?”

My voice was sharp, desperate. Ifeoma looked at me like I had grown another head.

“Young madam, it’s the twenty-third year after the big flood, first Sunday in April. Is something wrong?”

She hesitated, eyes flicking to the calendar pinned on the wall, as if to reassure herself. The old market calendar, with its faded photo of a smiling chief, showed April in bold letters.

I was completely stunned.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, hands trembling. It was impossible, but the truth rang out like a bell in my chest.

This was the first year after I married Chijioke.

I pressed my palm to my mouth, trying to control the flood of emotions rising in me. I remembered every sound, every smell—the echoes of the past rushing back with painful clarity.

And today was exactly the day news came that Chijioke had died.

My breath caught. The details came back: the panic in the house, the whispers from the kitchen, Mama’s shrill cry. It was all happening again, just as before.

I finally realised: I had been brought back.

A miracle, or maybe a test from God. Was this a second chance, or just another round of suffering?

Before I could think any further, a houseboy from the front yard came to report that the eldest son’s boat had capsized on River Benue, and the body was now outside the compound.

The houseboy’s voice shook, hands still wet from the river, and the whole household seemed to freeze for a heartbeat. My stomach twisted, knowing too well what would come next.

When I hurried to the front yard, I saw a body covered with a white cloth, lying quietly in the courtyard.

The air smelled faintly of river water and camphor. Neighbours crowded the gate, peering in with long faces. Someone had already started the low, keening wail that signalled deep mourning.

A crowd had gathered: some women wailed, a few old women muttered, "Na wa o, this Okoye family matter no dey ever end." Even children peeped through the gate, mimicking the adults’ cries, their small voices echoing the grown-ups' wailing.

I slowed down and walked over, my mind racing.

Each step felt like walking on broken glass. Memories from my former life tangled with the scene before me. My hands trembled as I reached for the cloth, heart pounding in my chest.

The words my mother-in-law said before I died in my last life still echoed in my ears.

Her voice had been so calm—too calm. Was I about to make the same mistake again?

If what she said was true, then this corpse couldn’t be Chijioke.

A suspicion began to grow in my chest, cold and sharp.

“Mama, young madam, the eldest master’s boat capsized on the way back. There was a big wave that day. I know how to swim a bit, so I barely escaped with my life.”

The houseboy’s voice was hoarse, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve, eyes darting around the gathering crowd.

That houseboy started crying as he wiped his face: “But when I went to look for someone to rescue the master, his body had already been eaten by fish. You couldn’t even recognise him.”

His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands. The crowd began to murmur, some shaking their heads in disbelief.

“My son…”

My mother-in-law suddenly wailed and threw herself to the ground, crying loudly.

Her wrapper twisted around her knees, her body rocking back and forth. She beat her chest, calling on the gods to return her son, her voice rising above the others. Yet, somehow, her eyes stayed dry, her gaze sharp and calculating.

In my last life, when I heard this terrible news, I fainted immediately.

I remembered the feeling: the world spinning, hands catching me as I fell. I had not even paused to question the story.

I never even doubted such a flimsy excuse.

Now, in this new chance at life, I looked again. The details were all wrong—the houseboy’s shifting eyes, Mama’s dramatic wailing.

Thinking of this, I looked at my mother-in-law and saw that although she was howling pitifully, there was not a single tear on her face.

She clutched her wrapper, but her eyes darted to the crowd, making sure everyone was watching. The display was for them, not for her own heart.

“Husband…”

I suddenly stepped forward and lifted the white cloth, only to see a face that was unrecognisable.

The smell of wet river mud and decay hit me like a slap. I nearly choked, the bile rising in my throat. The face was swollen and ruined; it could have belonged to any unfortunate man.

I nearly vomited.

I staggered back, clutching my stomach. Ifeoma rushed to steady me, her hands gentle on my arm.

Ifeoma quickly pulled me away. “Young madam, please try and control your grief…”

Her words were gentle, but there was fear in her eyes. She had never seen me so shaken.

Before I could say anything, someone suddenly rushed over from the side.

The air shifted, and I recognized the long stride of Obinna.

It was Chijioke’s younger brother, Obinna.

Obinna was breathless, shirt half-tucked, eyes wild with confusion. He stumbled to a stop, staring at the scene with disbelief.

I watched Obinna throw himself in front of the corpse, his eyes full of disbelief.

He grabbed at the cloth, as if hoping to see his brother’s smile instead of this ruined face.

When he looked up again, his eyes were already red: “Mama, sister-in-law, is this really my brother? Didn’t brother go to Aba to visit friends? How come… how come…”

His words came out in a rush, voice trembling. I could see real pain, real confusion on his young face.

His expression and words didn’t look fake at all. It seemed he truly didn’t know about Chijioke’s fake death.

I let out a slow breath, relief and anger mingling inside me. At least Obinna, poor child, was innocent—for now.

But this time, I will not let the lie stand.