Ebuka!

“Sister Uche, what’s a tsunami?”

She turned to look at you with visible surprise. Her jaw dropped slightly, like it needed help finding its way back home. It didn’t make sense to her where you’d conjure such question from. You were five. Five for Heaven’s sake and five-year-olds were supposed to be worried about whether Plankton would ever successfully steal the Krabby Patty formula or what exactly made SpongeBob’s laugh so annoying. Not tsunamis.

But then she paused, then smiled, and lifted you onto her lap.

A tsunami, she said, was a giant wave of water that rose when the earth had a hiccup. A wave powerful enough to destroy places. Then she told you about hurricanes, how the sky could get so angry it made the air spin round and round, tearing things apart in its path.

You were five that day. Today, you are twenty-two. And you know exactly why that memory has chosen today to resurface.

Because today is one of those rare days when your emotions feel exactly like that lesson she gave you…..uncontained, rising, spinning. The angry sky is you. The hurricane is your thoughts. And the tsunami is waiting for to happen.

And you know, if you don’t manage this carefully, something will break.

---

Today is day five. Your period hasn’t shown up. You are officially in panic mode.

Ebuka said he used protection the last time. You think he did. But you were in the moment—so deep in it—that you can’t swear you saw him slip it on. He didn’t cum inside you. You’re sure of that. Right? But then there’s pre-cum. And now, you remember it, you were ovulating that very day. The sick joke, “It is likely you’re pregnant”, your menstrual tracking app kept announcing whenever you opened wasn’t helping matters.

Pregnancy test? Where would you even get one? How would you use it? What were you going to do? Your mother would kill you. Disown you even. You were pregnant ke? Pregnant? She'd start with wondering when you became sexually active? You'd have to answer to a lot. Your panic was increasing. As if that wasn’t enough, Ebuka had stopped picking your calls. Your chest got tighter. Your heart palpitations rose.

Oh.
You were fucked. And you knew it.

---

Madam Chidinma called yesterday.

The catering job at Ngwo went badly. You remember promising, swearing, convincing her that you’d be present. That you’d oversee everything. She trusted you enough to leave town for another job, believing you had things under control. And then she travellled.

You did the cooking like you promised. You supervised the arranging of equipments. But you didn’t follow the workers to the ceremony to oversee the sharing and serving of food. Instead, you left.

You left to meet Ebuka at the hotel because he said he wanted to see you one last time before NYSC. That was the day you both did ‘the do’ for the last time. The day you couldn’t quite remember if he used protection like he said.

Now Madam Chidinma is back and she has reported 112 ceramic plates missing. The heavy white ones. The one of ₦3,500 each. She’s sent you her account details. Over ₦300,000 to be paid.

Your throat has dried up completely.

Oh.
You are fucked. And you know it.

---

This morning, your younger sister Soluchi texted you.

The hospital wants the advance payment for your mother’s surgery. You replied that you’d be there soon. That you just needed to withdraw cash because network might be bad. A lie. A cheap one. Because you don’t have the money. No, you don’t.

You gave it to Ebuka. Forex investment, he said. Cashout would be big, he said. He also said he’d pay you back in threefold. You imagined Mama’s surgery paid for. Soluchi’s WAEC fees sorted. A little peace for your aching mind and heart, you thought.

It’d been two weeks since you gave him the money so you reminded him. He told you he’d give it to you at the hotel. But, he didn’t. Cashout was delayed, he said. Two more days. Now he isn’t answering.

Oh.
You are fucked. And you know it.

---

Mr. Ikenna has called you seven times. He’s travelling to Turkey today. He wants to see you …just once.

You know what he wants. And you know you’ve said no because you love Ebuka. You don’t want to cheat. But love doesn’t pay hospital bills. Love doesn’t replace ceramic plates. Love doesn’t stop panic attacks at 2 a.m. Or does it?

Mr. Ikenna has promised you money. A new house. Safety even. And you hate that you are considering it right now. You hate that you have decided to just do the do with him just once.

And then you go.

---

You leave for Mr Ikenna's house. You call him and tell him you’re on your way. You could hear his excitement. He was finally going to get his chance with you.

You get there and you ask for ₦15 million upfront. He sends it immediately without flinching. The alert comes in to your surprise. Just like that, the tsunami recedes a little. You breathe, your financial problems all wiped away. And then you sleep with him. You even try things you never tried with Ebuka. You tell yourself it’s part of the transaction.

You both are done and you’re about to leave but then you’re curious so you ask him why he wanted you so badly. Fifteen million for a few hours? He smiles and says you’ve given him something better than money. Surplus wealth. You don’t understand it but you don’t ask further, instead you dress up to leave for the hospital.

Then he asks for another round “to be sure it works,” you say no. He insists and tries to grab you but then, you push him and he falls.

There is blood. A pool of it.

Your ears start to ring. Your vision starts to blur. Darken even. And then, your legs move before your brain does. You run. You run down the stairs. Straight into Ebuka. He is climbing up.

You are both talking at once. Why are you here? Why are you sweating? Where are you going? Who are you running from? Shouldn’t you be at NYSC camp?

He says Mr. Ikenna is his stepfather. He came to say goodbye before camp. The words settle slowly. Too slowly. It goes quiet. And for the first time all day, there is no sound at all.

---

Today, you're not 22. You’re at an age you don't know. You don't even know what day it is. You haven't known for a while. To you, time was not measurable anymore, it didn't come in morning or nights anymore but in stretches of cold and heat, hunger, brief numbness and darkness.

You don't know that Mama died two days after you went to Mr Ikenna’s house because you never made it back to the hospital and the bill was never paid. You don't know that the nurses waited for hours before covering her body with a white sheet that didn't quite reach her feet. You don't know that Soluchi cried till her voice broke.

You also don't know that Madame Chidinma dragged Soluchi to the police station and locked her up for that debt you owed. You don't know that your sister kept saying your name over and over, wailing, crying.

You don't know any of this.

You don’t even know how you ended up here. At this refuse bin.

You don’t know that Mr. Ikenna kept his own kind of promises. You don’t know that long before you walked into his house, before the money, before the begging hands and urgent needs, he had already gone somewhere else, somewhere that smelled of gin, kola nut, and old secrets.

You don’t know about the native doctor. Nor the agreement: that surplus wealth would come, but it would not come free. That once he slept with you, the bargain would seal itself.g

And that that the screws that held you in place would loosen. You don’t know if Ebuka left you here or if you walked here yourself. You don’t remember when your clothes tore, when your shoes disappeared, when your hair stopped being hair and became something else or when your body started to smell like it had been abandoned by itself.

You don’t know any of this.

All you know is the name on your lips. Ebuka. You don’t know why that name stays.

You don’t know what it is attached to—love, anger, fear, betrayal, or blood. You just know it comes out of you like a reflex. And that you—

you stay here, by the refuse bin, holding on to a name you don’t understand, while everything else you were… disappears.