The day my mother was buried, the sun felt too hot, like it had no mercy left for anyone. The red Lagos soil stained my slippers so deeply that no matter how much I dragged my feet on the ground, it refused to fall off. It was as if the earth itself wanted to mark me—so that everyone would know I was the child whose mother had just been swallowed by the ground.
I stood near the grave, holding the edge of my uncle Obinna's trousers. My fingers were shaking, not because of fear, but because I was confused. Adults were crying loudly, some beating their chests, some shouting my mother's name—Ngozi—as though calling her would bring her back. But when I looked into the grave, all I saw was a dark hole and a wooden box being lowered slowly.
I waited.
I truly believed she would sit up.
My mother had always gotten up. Even when she was sick, even when she was tired, she always rose for me. So I waited for her to prove everyone wrong. But the men poured sand. One shovel. Two. Three. With each sound, something inside my chest collapsed.
"Mama…" I whispered.
Nobody answered.
When it was over, people started leaving as if nothing extraordinary had happened. They shook hands, discussed transport fares, and argued over food. I stood there, alone in a crowd, holding my slippers that were now half-filled with red dust. Nobody explained anything to me. Nobody knelt down to my level and said, Your mother is gone.
They just assumed I would understand.
Inside the bus that took us away, I sat between Aunt Ezinne and my uncle. My body leaned slightly toward her—not because I trusted her, but because I had nowhere else to lean. I kept turning my head toward the window, watching the road disappear behind us. Every turn felt like we were moving farther away from my mother forever.
My uncle cleared his throat and spoke softly.
"Ezinne, please… take care of the boy. He's all his mother left."
She nodded quickly, too quickly.
"He will be fine with me."
I looked up at her face. She smiled down at me, but her eyes were empty—like a door that had already been closed. I didn't know how to read faces then, but my heart felt uneasy.
When we arrived at her compound in Mushin, the noise overwhelmed me. Radios were playing. Women were shouting. Children were running barefoot. Life was moving forward, loud and careless, while mine had stopped completely.
One child pointed at me and asked loudly,
"Is that the orphan?"
I didn't know what orphan meant, but I knew it hurt.
Inside the house, my aunt told me to sit in one corner while she welcomed guests. I sat quietly, hugging my knees. My stomach growled, but no one offered me food. At some point, someone handed me a small plate of cold rice without stew. I ate slowly, afraid it would finish too soon.
That night came faster than I expected.
When everyone finally left, Aunt Ezinne called me into her room. The room smelled unfamiliar. My heart jumped when I saw a small bundle on the bed—wrapped the same way my mother always wrapped her things.
"Mama's clothes…" I whispered, stepping forward.
For the first time since the burial, hope rose inside me.
She opened the bundle and spread the items out carelessly. My mother's wrapper. Her faded blouse. The necklace she wore to church. And the picture—my favorite one—where she carried me on her back and smiled into the camera.
My eyes filled with tears.
"I want to sleep with this," I said quietly, pointing to the wrapper.
She stared at me like I had said something offensive.
Without a word, she gathered everything, stood up, and walked to her cupboard. She pushed the items inside and locked it.
The click of the lock sounded louder than thunder.
"Forget her," she said flatly.
"She is dead. Crying won't help you."
I felt something tear inside me.
I fell to my knees and cried. I cried for my mother. I cried for myself. I cried because nobody had ever spoken to me like that before.
She hissed loudly.
"If you don't stop crying, I will give you something to cry for."
Fear swallowed my grief.
She spread a thin mat on the floor near the kitchen and pointed at it.
"Sleep there."
That floor was cold. The mat smelled of dust and oil. I lay down, hugging myself, listening to the sounds of the night—dogs barking, generators humming, neighbors laughing.
In my mother's house, night meant safety. Here, night meant loneliness.
I whispered prayers my mother taught me, my voice shaking.
"God please… bring my mummy back. I promise to be good."
No answer came.
I cried silently till my chest hurt, till my eyes could no longer produce tears. When sleep finally came, it wasn't gentle—it dragged me in out of exhaustion.
By morning, my face was swollen, my heart was heavier, and my mother's memory had been locked away like a crime.
That was when I understood something too painful for a child to learn:
My mother didn't just die that day.
She was taken from me—piece by piece.
And in Aunt Ezinne's house, my suffering had officially begun. 😭