Amaka and I shared everything.
Notes. Laughter. Dreams that made no sense. Headphones, spoons, second-hand novels, the silence after a good cry. Her laughter lived in my voice, like if she ever stopped showing up, I’d lose the pitch.
She called me her favourite person.
I never told her she was mine, too.
The day I found her body, it didn’t look like hers. Just… bent, wrong. Scarf still tied. Torn at the edge, like something had yanked it. Mouth open, like she’d been trying to scream when it happened.
The police said it was probably area boys. She shouldn’t have been on that street.
But I knew Amaka. She didn’t walk that street. Not after what happened in February. And her purse was still there. Wallet full. Phone cracked, but untouched.
“Maybe it wasn’t a robbery,” I said.
My mother told me to let the dead rest.
I didn’t.
I started asking questions. Watching people. Sneaking where I shouldn’t. Reading police post. Stalking Instagram tags. Piecing timelines together like they owed me the truth.
Grief and obsession don’t look different on the outside.
I memorised our texts from that day. The sudden gap between 2:15 and 2:49. She always replied fast.
I kept a list of every person she’d argued with in the past six months.
I started sleeping in her hoodie. Then stopped sleeping entirely.
Her laugh still rang in my head like a warning bell.
They buried her on a Monday. Closed casket. I didn’t speak. Just stared at the box like it might blink.
My father held my hand tightly.
Weeks passed.
No leads.
No suspects.
No one cared.
Except me. And maybe him.
There was a page torn from her journal. Just one. Tucked under her bed, like it slipped through the mattress.
“He came by again. Smelled like petrol and sweat. Didn’t stay long. I don’t like the way he watches me.”
No name.
Just that.
I started making a list. Men who came by. Men she knew. Teachers. Neighbours. Delivery guys. Drivers.
And then, the stupid part: I started watching him.
My father.
I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to.
But grief sharpens everything, and memory rewinds things you didn’t mean to record.
The way he used to ask about her.
The way he always said her name slower than the others.
The day I found him washing his hands too long after the funeral.
The time I came home and caught him staring at an old photo of us. Of her. Not like he missed her.
Like he missed something else.
I told myself I was sick for thinking it.
Until today.
I was cleaning his car. I don’t know why. Maybe because I wanted to see if the universe would give me a sign. Maybe because I was afraid it would.
Under the driver’s seat: a small scrap of blue and white fabric. Soft. Familiar.
My hands started shaking before my brain caught up.
I pulled it out. Unravelled it gently. It was a torn piece of Amaka’s scarf. Same pattern. Same weave. I would know it anywhere. I’d held it while she cried. I’d borrowed it. She’d worn it the last day I saw her.
There was blood on the corner.
Dry.
Faded.
But still there.
My father called from inside the house.
“Chioma! You’ve been out there long!”
I stood there, scarf in my hand, heart caving in on itself.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t answer.
I just stared at the fabric and felt my world start to come apart.
That is it. This is where it ends.
Not because it’s the end — but because I don’t know how to keep going when the truth is…