Espiode 2.
The walk from the hospital gate to the main road felt like stepping onto another planet.
Ten years inside makes you forget certain things.
The weight of the sun.
The smell of diesel and roasting corn.
The way stranger brush past you without apology.
I stood at the roadside for a long moment, blinking.
Ifeoma’s bag hung from my shoulder. Her phone was inside. Her keys. A crumpled receipt from a pharmacy. A half-eaten pack of biscuits.
I pulled out the phone and stared at the screen.
Four missed calls.
All from “Chidi ❤️”
The heart emoji made something twist in my stomach.
I opened her messages.
“Where are you?”
“Dinner is getting cold.”
“Ifeoma, don’t make me come find you.”
The last one was sent forty minutes ago.
No warmth. No concern. Just control wrapped in polite threats.
I knew men like Chidi.
I had never met him, but I knew him.
The kind of man who smiled at weddings and clenched his fist behind closed doors. The kind who believed a wife was property. The kind who only understood one language.
I typed back in Ifeoma’s voice:
“Coming now. Sorry.”
Then I started walking.
—
The house was in a modest compound off the Enugu-Onitsha Expressway.
Neat walls. A small garden. A child’s bicycle lying on its side in the driveway.
It looked normal.
That was the most disturbing part.
I stood at the gate for a full minute, listening.
Music played from inside. Old highlife. The kind men like Chidi played while they drank, pretending to be happy.
I pushed the gate open.
The front door was unlocked.
I stepped inside.
The living room smelled of kerosene and fried plantains. A television murmured in the corner. And there, sprawled across a brown leather sofa with a bottle of beer in his hand, was Chidi.
He looked up when I entered.
His eyes were already glassy.
“You took your time,” he said.
No greeting.
No “how was your sister?”
Just accusation.
I lowered my head the way Ifeoma would. Let my shoulders curl.
“Traffic,” I murmured.
He studied me for a moment.
Then his eyes traveled down my body and back up again.
Something flickered across his face. Something I couldn’t read.
“You look different,” he said slowly.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
But I kept my voice soft. Kept my eyes down.
“I’m just tired.”
He grunted. Took a long swallow of beer.
“Where’s my food?”
“In the kitchen. I’ll warm it up.”
I turned to walk away.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
Footsteps behind me.
Then his hand landed on my shoulder. Heavy. Familiar. The kind of touch that wasn’t affection—it was ownership.
“You’ve been gone all day,” he said near my ear. His breath smelled of alcohol and anger. “Visiting your crazy sister.”
I said nothing.
“Do you know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you like going there because it makes you feel better about yourself. Like, at least you’re not locked up like her.”
He laughed.
I let him laugh.
“At least you have a husband who provides for you. At least you have a roof over your head.”
His fingers tightened on my shoulder.
“Right?”
I forced Ifeoma’s small voice out of my throat.
“Yes, Chidi.”
He squeezed harder.
Then let go.
“Go get my food. And bring me another beer.”
I walked to the kitchen without looking back.
—
The kitchen was small and cramped.
Dishes sat unwashed in the sink. A pot of stew had burned at the bottom. On the counter, a photograph of Ifeoma and Somi was tucked behind a salt shaker, half-hidden like something that wasn’t supposed to be displayed.
I opened the fridge.
Inside: beer. Leftovers. A single orange.
No vegetables. No milk for a child.
Just enough to keep someone alive. Not enough to make anyone happy.
I found Chidi’s food and put it on a plate.
My hands were steady.
That surprised me.
Ten years ago, my hands would have been shaking. Ten years ago, I would have already picked up something heavy.
But St. Raphael’s had taught me something valuable.
Rage without patience is just noise.
And noise doesn’t save anyone.
—
I carried the plate back to the living room.
Chidi had moved to the dining table. His beer was empty. His eyes were heavier now.
I set the plate in front of him.
“Where’s Somi?” I asked carefully.
“Asleep.”
“In her room?”
“Where else would she be?”
He picked up his fork. Took a bite. Chewed with his mouth open.
“This is cold.”
“I just warmed it.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
I said nothing.
He took another bite. Then another.
Halfway through the plate, he stopped.
“I’m going out tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Aren’t you going to ask where?”
I met his eyes for half a second. Then looked away.
“It’s not my place to ask.”
He smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
“Good wife,” he said.
He stood up. Walked to the bedroom. Came back five minutes later in a fresh shirt, his hair combed, his belt jingling.
He paused at the door.
“Don’t wait up.”
Then he was gone.
The door slammed.
The house fell silent.
I stood in the middle of the living room, listening to the sound of his car starting, pulling out of the compound, disappearing down the road.
And only when I could no longer hear the engine did I finally move.
—
I found Somi in the back room.
She was lying on a thin mattress on the floor. No mosquito net. No nightlight. Just a small girl in a faded pink nightgown, her thumb in her mouth, her cheeks still wet from crying.
I knelt beside her.
She stirred.
“Mummy?” she whispered.
“Shh,” I said softly. “I’m here.”
Her eyes opened.
She looked at me.
And then her little face crumpled.
“He was shouting again,” she said. “He said you ran away.”
“I didn’t run away, baby.”
“He said he would find you. He said—”
I pulled her into my arms.
She was so small. So light. When she hugged me back, her fingers barely reached around my neck.
“I’m here now,” I said against her hair. “And no one is ever going to hurt you again.”
She cried into my shoulder.
I held her.
And while I held her, I made a list in my head.
The locks on the doors.
The neighbors who pretended not to hear.
The mother-in-law who would come tomorrow morning with more insults and more chores.
The sister-in-law who liked to pinch Ifeoma when no one was looking.
The man who would come home tonight, drunk and dangerous, expecting to find his wife waiting.
He would find someone.
But not the woman he thought he married.
I rocked Somi until her breathing evened out.
Then I laid her back on the mattress, tucked the thin blanket around her, and stood up.
The kitchen still needed cleaning.
The dishes still needed washing.
But first, I walked to the front door and checked the lock.
Then the windows.
Then the back door.
I wanted to know every way in.
And every way out.
Because tomorrow, Chidi would wake up and think it was just another day.
He would pour himself tea.
He would read the newspaper.
He would look at the woman in his kitchen and see nothing different.
And that was exactly how I wanted it.
Let him be blind.
Let him be comfortable.
Let him be stupid.
The anger inside me wasn’t a fire anymore.
It was a blade.
And I had been sharpening it for ten years.
—
To be continued…
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