Empty Flat

Jake doesn’t come back that night. Or the next.

Mom notices on the second morning. She stands in the kitchen in her nightgown, holding the kettle like it’s heavy. "Where your brother?"

"David’s place," Rihanna says. It’s not a lie. "Near the shop. He said it’s easier for work."

Mom frowns. "He no tell me."

"He told me."

Mom stares at her for too long. "Okay." Then she turns and puts the kettle on like nothing happened.

The flat feels bigger without him. Quieter. The ceiling still drips when it rains but no one puts the bucket under it fast enough, so the tile stays wet. Rihanna steps in it barefoot and doesn’t even curse.

She texts him: _you good?_ He reads it. No reply.

On the third day David shows up. He’s Jake’s friend since secondary — thin, gold tooth, always smelling faintly of weed even when he swears he stopped. He comes with Jake’s dirty laundry in a nylon bag.

"Your brother say make I bring this," David says, dropping the bag by the door. He doesn’t come in.

"Where is he?"

"Shop. Oga dey use him like mule." David looks at her, then away. "He say he go come weekend."

Rihanna grabs the bag. His shirts are inside, engine oil on the collar. She wants to bury her face in them. She doesn’t. "Tell him Mom is asking."

David nods. Before he leaves he says, "You two quarrel?"

"No."

David makes a sound in his throat. "E be like say una dey quarrel." Then he’s gone.

Rihanna washes the clothes by hand in the bathroom. The water turns grey. She scrubs the collar until her knuckles burn. When she hangs them on the line on the balcony, the wind flips the sleeves like someone waving.

That evening Amaka calls. Not texts. Calls.

"Ri. Wetin dey happen?"

"Nothing."

"Don’t lie. Mom called me crying. She say Jake run comot. She say you know why."

Rihanna sits on the edge of the bed. "I don’t."

Amaka is quiet for three breaths. Then: "Rihanna. I warned you. If you tell that boy anything —"

"I didn’t!" Rihanna snaps, then drops her voice. "I didn’t."

"Good. Because if you destroy that boy head, God will judge you. You hear me? He’s all your mama get."

Rihanna hangs up. Her hands shake so bad she drops the phone.

Mom doesn’t cry in front of her, but Rihanna hears it that night through the wall — small, muffled sounds while she pretends to sleep. It’s worse than shouting.

Saturday Jake comes. No bag. No smile. He knocks, doesn’t use his key.

Mom opens the door and pulls him into a hug so tight he grunts. "Wetin happen? You no fit call?"

"Work, ma. Sorry."

He looks over Mom’s shoulder at Rihanna. His face is blank. Tired.

They eat rice together. Nobody talks much. Jake keeps his phone face-down. He doesn’t tap the table when he stands. He just gets up and goes to wash his plate.

After, Mom goes to nap. Jake sits on the couch, elbows on knees. Rihanna stands by the door.

"You told Amaka?" he asks.

"No. Mom did."

He nods. "She called me. Shouted for thirty minutes."

"I’m sorry."

"Stop saying sorry."

"Then what do you want me to say?"

He looks at her finally. His eyes are red at the edges. "I want you to go back to school and forget whatever rubbish is in your head."

"It’s not rubbish."

"It is." His voice cracks. "Ri, I dreamt about you last week. Not sister dream. And I woke up and wanted to break my own hand. You understand?"

She does. Her stomach drops.

"I can’t be here," he says. "Every time you look at me I feel... and then I remember who you are and I want to vomit."

Rihanna feels the words like a slap. She doesn’t cry. She just nods.

"Okay."

He stands. Grabs his keys. No tap-tap.

At the door he stops. "I love you. But you’re my sister. Don’t make me hate you."

He leaves.

Rihanna counts. Seven days left before school. She packs her bag that night, even though the bus isn’t till Friday. She folds Jake’s clean shirts and puts them on his bed. She takes the hoodie — the one she stole the first night — and shoves it to the bottom of her bag.

Mom finds her packing and doesn’t ask why early. She just sits on the bed beside her and rubs her back once.

"You two will be okay," Mom says.

Rihanna doesn’t answer. She can’t promise that anymore.

At midnight she texts Jake: _I’m leaving Thursday._

He reads it at 1:14. No reply.

She stares at the ceiling until light comes through the curtain. The flat is so quiet she can hear the drip from the fridge.

Plink. Plink.