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By: Jeffry Ogochukwu
NOVEMBER 2024 ISSUE
Short Fiction
Editor: Christian Pan
The best thing about Hannah’s smile was how pink it made her cheeks look; it made every organ in my belly plump up. When she mouthed a strained ‘I love you’ a few weeks ago and the smile never came, I was devastated. She appeared all sun-bleached and dried up, like a wilted rose after having all the blood seep from the stab wound on her side. Dr. Femi said she could have been saved if she had been rushed to the hospital. Instead, she died bleeding away all of her smiles.
I reach for a Hero beer — the closest bottle — and gaze at the label, fascinated. Mma Evelyn had been kind enough to sell it to me on credit. Probably because she felt sorry for me. There used to be a wine cooler, a large smart TV, and a tiny bar in the living room, as well as a fridge in the kitchen used just for beer, with more crates ready to go out in the passage. But Hannah cleared them out and turned the refrigerator into a place solely for soya milk drinks and the bar into an altar because ‘an hour in the Lord’s presence is better than all the worldly pleasure.’ My friends stopped visiting after that, so we drank outside Yaradua Viewing Centre, the one near the suya joint at the Total Filling Station, and laughed through our noses like it was nobody’s business.
The crown of the bottle pops, and the cold beer rushes down my throat like a carefree child on a slip-n-slide. My head pounds and my body feels heavy. Crouching on the linoleum, my cheeks and eyes contorted into a stoic expression, I doze off with the air conditioner humming at sixteen degrees. The bottle slips from my grip and shatters on the floor, just like my happiness the night I found Hannah lying in her pool of blood.
There’s a knock on the door.
Outside the living room window, the afternoon has turned dark — how long have I been sleeping? — and dewy drops of rain wet the glass. My head weighs a ton as I attempt to sit up. Bleary-eyed, I brush my nose with the back of my palm and feel a sharp pain travel up my skull. If I weren’t so groggy, I’d notice that I’m sitting on a wet carpet. I’d see the tiny, broken pieces of glass on my palms and on the linoleum. Another knock on the pewter door forces some particles of dust from the cracks that run up the wall to the ceiling.
“Who’s there?”
The door appears to be moving towards me. The whole room appears to be in motion. I drift back as the room closes in, until eventually I’m back on the floor. For a moment, it feels good — lying on my back, watching the ceiling fold in on itself. But then the knock comes again, and I growl in frustration at the door, furious at whoever is behind it.
The cold evening breeze slashes my face as the door creaks open. My eyes narrowed to slits at the sight of the new neighbor: a short, shady-looking fella wearing a baggy shirt and ragged jeans that never go beyond his hips. Our eyes meet, but I immediately turn away. We aren’t exactly friends — my neighbor and I. We just occasionally bump into one another and pass by with a silent ‘what’s up’ and a nod.
“Bro, your sneakers are still outside, and it’s about to rain,” he says. It’s usually my wife who brings my things in when it gets dark.
“Put it over there. Thanks.” I sluggishly gesture towards the cracked leather chair close to the door. After he drops them, his eyes move from the empty beer bottles scattered throughout the room before noting the blood trickling from the small cut on my face. Those eyes ask the silent question, ‘Everything alright, man?’ I let out a heavy sigh and run my fingers, wet with beer and broken glasses, through my dishevelled hair.
His shoulder slumps and his eyes carry a mixture of pity and understanding. “I heard about your wife. So sorry for your loss, man.” I don’t say anything. “Listen, if you ever need someone to talk to or just hang out, I’m right next door.”
Still, I remain silent. He shuts the door as he leaves, and the house becomes unusually quiet. I sit there for a long time, looking at nothing. Sometimes I stare blankly at the single-framed photograph of Hannah on the table, and sometimes I just look out the window.
Then my phone rings. It’s my mother: she’s been calling non-stop these last three days. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, really; I know what they’re going to say.
“Sweetie, how are you holding up?” My mother’s voice, needled with bitterness, fills my head.
I sigh, blowing the spirit away. These past few days have been tough. But I don’t tell her that, not out loud.
“I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through,” she says. “Hannah was such a wonderful person. It’s hard to believe she’s gone.” I drag myself to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Sandy wind whistles through the broken pane in the back door. The house is in such shambles, with broken pieces of furniture and unwashed clothes lying around.
“We had plans to go for this year’s September reparation, in Holy Land.” Her voice rings, dull as the bell at St. Anthony Parish. “You remember Holy Land? In Enugu? She wanted to show me the giant Crucifix and the fountain of Our Lady. Sadly, that’s never going to happen. It wouldn’t be the same without her.” I let her voice echo in the background while I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Oh, before I forget, your cousin Maria is in town. She thought it might be a good idea to spend some time together. It could be a nice distraction, even if just for a little while. I’m sure you could use some company.”
I look in the mirror and see that my eyes are red, red as fresh blood, and my face is pale and puffed up. In the mirror, Hannah leans on my shoulder, a piercing memory. A piece of hair falls across her face. We´re talking about kids: how many we´re going to have, how we´ll celebrate their dedication and birthdays. ‘Let’s have four,’ she says. I interject, ‘Two is enough, abeg.’ ‘Four.’ ‘Two.’ ‘Four.’ ‘Two.’ Tears burn in my eyes, and I realise as I hold the phone to my ear in my filthy bathroom that I’m smiling.
“Hello? Sweetheart?” My mother's voice brings me back. “Are you there?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I say, refusing to allow any sadness into my voice. “I’ll talk to you later. There’s something I need to attend to.”
“Alright, sweetie. Do take care of yourself. Love you.”
I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand. “Love you too, Mom.”
My throat drops to my lungs. I stare at my reflection as if it had done something unexpected and whisper, very slowly, “Love you.” Even though the call with my mother is over, I keep saying ‘love you’ to the mirror. Until it hit me: Hannah never said ‘I love you’ the night she died.
*
Hannah wore a serene smile as well as her pendant of the Blessed Virgin Mary the night she died, and her wild hair was tucked under a cranberry-coloured veil matted with blood. She wore that Star Maggi apron with ‘Every woman is a star’ crested under her breasts as she lay sprawled on the parlour floor when I found her. Her mouth was still moving, then — I think she was trying to say something in between her fading gasps, but death was impatient. I shook her so hard I felt my teeth rattle in my mouth. It was horrible. The detective later said that the robbers broke in through the kitchen door, the weakest one in the house. She must have tried to struggle with them but ended up with a knife through her side.
Hannah was always so sweet and gentle. She counted her Rosary three times a day like it was a square meal. It’s impossible to imagine her struggling with anyone. They must have attacked her unprovoked. I remember the detective stroking his moustache, always listening with interest. He jotted down notes in a little book and surveyed the room which had now become a crime scene.
“Have you been able to identify anything that was taken?” he said, one eyebrow raised.
“For now, the smart TV and the big gen, for sure. But I haven’t looked around the house yet.”
A leer etched across the detective’s face. “Seems it’s only your home that was broken into in the whole neighbourhood.”
His words struck me as oddly disturbing. At some point later that night, or perhaps as daylight seeped in from the edge of the horizon, I managed to stop thinking and finally found some sleep.
The following morning, I showed up at the station with bloodstains on my shirt and a strong resolve to find the people who had killed my Hannah. The detective patiently told me to go back home and wait because there was nothing I could do. He said he would do his best to find the robbers for me.
It’s been eight weeks now, and the men who killed her are still at large. The detective hasn’t gotten any leads, and I almost feel like he´s indifferent over solving the case.
“Give the poor lad a break,” Maria tells me. “I’m sure he’s doing the best he can.”
She arrived early this morning wearing a pensive expression, which later turned into a frown upon catching a whiff of the kitchen from the front step. Since then, she’s been clearing out all the bottles scattered around the room. Right now, I’m watching television with the sound muted.
“There should have been a break in the case by now. Haba.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Please, see if there’s any beer left in the fridge. I could use some right now.”
“You mean the ones I cleared out this morning?” I bristle at her response. She looks me in the eye, challenging me. Her chin is dimpled just like my wife’s is. “I think you’ve had enough.” She loosens the apron around her waist and walks back into the kitchen.
I don’t know what bothers me more — that she threw away a full crate or that I haven’t even paid for them yet. I step out of the house. Maria is happy because my pallid skin is finally getting sun and cold July air. The new neighbor is in the front yard, wiping the rain-soaked grass with the machete he borrowed from me the weekend before. His lawn is surrounded on all sides by well-kept hibiscus plants. Every time he mows the grass, he is intentional about clearing only his side, creating a straight line that divides the freshly cut grass from my untouched lawn. Today, he’s clearing the grass in front of my house. Sweat is pouring down his puffy cheeks.
He notices me standing there on the front porch. “Hey, man. You good?”
I look at him closely, then avert my gaze to the freshly cut grass. “Really appreciate this, man. Thanks,” I tell him sincerely, even though I know he’s only doing this out of pity.
“I’m just glad to see you better than you were yesterday.”
My smile pulls tight. This is the longest conversation we´ve shared since he moved into the neighborhood.
The detective calls and says, in a gruff, husky voice, that this is “a very difficult case”, that it´s “practically impossible to trace the ones who did it,” he says. He tells me that the police have been forced to put the case on hold.
My silence asks, “Why?”
“Thing is, we´re doing the best we can,” the detective tells me. “These things take time. We’ve put so much into this investigation. I can’t even remember the last time I had a good sleep.”
A sudden wind blows in my direction, cool and strong, scattering the patch of grass my neighbour has gathered. “Can you find them or not?” I interrupt him sharply.
He sighs, sounding like a deflating tyre punctured by broken bottles. “What I’m trying to say is, with the way things are going, it looks like the case might not be brought to a close any time soon. I’m really sorry.”
He hangs up, the dead phone still held close to my ear. I notice my neighbour — the one who lives directly opposite with a woman he has yet to marry — hurriedly putting on his jacket and leaving his house. He throws me a casual smile as he gets into his car and drives off. He works at the restaurant downtown. I can’t help but feel cross him, with the detective, with everyone. How can they continue living their lives as if nothing has changed? How can life remain the same without Hannah in the neighborhood?
Jeffry Ogochukwu
Jeffrey Ogochukwu is a poet and writer who lives in Nigeria. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous places, including: Fabula Argentea, The Kalahari Review, 2022 Kepressing Anthology Prize, Space and Time, Thirteen Podcast, Ink in Thirds, Spillwords, and The Red Mud Review. You can visit him at his site linked below.
For more information:
House of Grief House of Grief
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