The Monday after Chiburuoma's wedding dawned heavy with clouds. The harmattan haze had lifted weeks ago, but the sky carried a weight that made everything feel slower, quieter. Abraham sat on the veranda, chin resting in his palm, staring at the road as if expecting it to bring him answers.
Glory had passed by earlier on her way to the market, her greeting warm but quick. Desmond, who had not shown up since the Sunday clash, was still an unseen presence—one that lingered in Abraham's thoughts like an itch he couldn't scratch.
Chika sat a few feet away, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone, but his eyes flicked to his brother every now and then. He sensed a heaviness he couldn't name. Emperor's warning about Glory still echoed in his head, but he hadn't found the courage to ask Abraham directly. Instead, he waited, watching, piecing together clues.
Tamuno arrived mid-morning with a football under his arm, urging Abraham to join him for a quick kickabout. Abraham declined at first, but Tamuno's persistence wore him down. The two left together, leaving Chika alone in the compound.
It was then the phone rang.
The ringtone was unmistakable—Mama's call tone, the one she had chosen herself, a highlife song she loved. Chika snatched it up quickly.
"Mama!" he greeted, voice brightening.
"My son," her voice came warm and tired all at once, the way only a mother's voice could. "How are you? I hope Uyo is treating you well after Sokoto dried you like fish?"
Chika laughed. "Mama, I'm fine. I reached well. Abraham is here too, he's been taking care of me."
"Let me hear his voice," she demanded immediately.
Chika hesitated. "He went out with Tamuno. They'll soon come back."
There was a pause on the line. Then, softer: "How is your brother?"
Chika sensed something behind the question, something unspoken. He shifted on the chair. "He's fine. Quiet, as always. You know Abraham."
"Hmmm." Mama's sigh crackled through the line. "That boy carries too much inside. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever let somebody into his heart. You, Chika, are open like a river. But your brother—he hides his heart in a room with no windows."
Chika bit his lip. Emperor's words from yesterday rang again in his mind: She's your brother's heartbeat. Could Mama be feeling the same silence he had noticed?
"Mama," Chika said carefully, "maybe he just needs the right person."
"Yes!" she agreed at once, her voice picking up. "That is why I'm praying. Twenty-six is not small, Chika. He is not a boy again. Even you—you will soon start thinking of settling down. I don't want to wait too long before I see grandchildren, do you hear?"
Chika chuckled, but his chest felt heavy. "Yes, Mama."
"Greet your brother for me when he returns," she said. "And tell him his mother is praying for him. Always."
The call ended, leaving the compound unusually silent. Chika lowered the phone slowly, his mind buzzing. Mama's words confirmed what Emperor had hinted—Abraham's silence wasn't just about personality. It was about something deeper, something held too tightly.
When Abraham returned, sweat-damp and flushed from football, Chika thought of saying something. But he swallowed the words. Instead, he only handed the phone over. "Mama called. She said I should greet you."
Abraham nodded, his eyes unreadable. "I'll call her later." He left it at that, retreating inside to wash up.
---
That evening, Glory came by again, carrying a bowl of soup she said her mother insisted on sending. Abraham thanked her quietly, avoiding her gaze. Chika watched the exchange from a distance, the puzzle in his mind deepening.
Glory lingered only briefly, her footsteps light as she left the compound. A moment later, Desmond appeared at the gate, his face calm but his eyes sharp. He didn't come inside—he only greeted stiffly, his gaze locking with Abraham's for a long second before moving on.
It was a small thing, a passing moment. But in that silence, Chika felt the weight of everything unspoken: rivalry, desire, restraint, and the invisible threads that bound his brother to Glory, for better or worse.
That night, as the compound settled into stillness, Chika lay awake again. His mother's words replayed in his mind. Abraham's silence was more than habit—it was a battle. And somewhere in the middle of it stood Glory, unaware of the storms she carried with her presence.
For Chika, Sokoto had been about survival and routine. But Uyo—it was about secrets. And every day, he was being pulled deeper into them.