Chapter 1: The Day Joy Broke

The sun dey slap our neck, children dey scatter sand everywhere, and laughter dey burst like popcorn for air. At exactly 11 a.m., while my husband dey struggle for breath inside bathtub, me I dey gist with other mothers near the slide for our compound.

As I dey laugh with them, my mind dey far from house wahala—if thunder dey strike inside, I for no hear. You know how e be, when sun dey shine and children dey shout, happiness dey everywhere. That kind careless joy dey my body, I no fit ever imagine say as I dey gist dey throw head back, my whole world dey turn upside down just some metres away. For compound like ours, gist fit sweet pass golden morn, so everybody dey join mouth, dey forget house matter small.

That slide dey directly under my bathroom window, no far at all—just about five or six metres if you check am straight.

From that place, sometimes breeze go blow carry sound from upstairs; if you listen well, you fit hear tap water dey run or bucket dey drop. But that day, all I hear na children dey shout, mothers dey gossip, and Kamsi dey chase her friends up and down. Na so Naija compound life be—everybody close, but still get their own wahala inside house.

Normally, if to say I go house by 11 as usual, I for reach in time save am.

I dey always get that habit—after children finish first round of play, I go carry my own pikin go house, arrange bath before hunger start. E be like small thing, but that small routine na wetin dey save person sometimes. But that day, routine bend small, and everything scatter.

But that day, Halima’s mama just buy new dress, she come dey invite us make we come her house admire am. She even bring out zobo and chin-chin, dey share as she dey twirl for parlour.

You sabi Naija women, any small chance to show latest Ankara or lace, everybody go gather, dey hail, dey snap picture. Halima’s mama na person wey sabi show body, her voice loud pass megaphone. She no wan make anybody miss am, so she dey call all of us: "My sisters, come see as I fine! See this cloth, na original London, no be Aba!" We sef dey laugh dey follow am.

By 11:10, when me and my daughter return house, my husband don already stop to breathe.

That short waka from Halima house to my own, e heavy for my mind till today. I dey ask myself why breeze blow me go that side, why I no just carry Kamsi go house straight. Even as we dey open door, I no suspect anything, just dey think of how water go don cool small, whether food still dey warm. But na death I meet.

For the burial, na so grief take hold me, I faint sotay e happen many times.

People rush carry me pour water, spray anointing oil, some dey call pastor, some dey fan me. The whole thing be like film—one moment I dey ground, next moment I dey cry, dey call Abubakar name. Sorrow tie wrapper for my body, e no wan let go.

Everybody just dey pity me, dey shake head.

You go hear am for their voice—"Ah, see as fine woman suffer like this. See as God give, devil take." Even small children dey whisper, dey look me with big eye. Some aunties dey kneel beside me, dey rub my back, dey mutter prayer: "God no go shame us."

My mother-in-law, Mama Zainab, wey be primary school headmistress, travel all the way from one far place for the North come. As everybody dey look, she waka come meet me.

The way she waka, her wrapper no touch ground, e dey sweep sorrow. Her step strong like person wey don march for village square before. You go know say na headmistress from the way she balance her bag, the steady eye, the no-nonsense face. All the women make way for am—respect dey her body like perfume.

Her face strong, her voice steady as she talk each word clear:

"Na you kill my pikin. You be the murderer."

Her words cold like harmattan morning. Even breeze stop for that compound. People choke, eye wide, some wan talk but no fit. For my ear, her voice echo, dey ring like church bell for market day. I weak, my mind scatter, the ground turn, but nobody fit hold me.

Her voice no shake. Na thunder for harmattan. My own mother-in-law, for front of everybody, call me murderer.