Visitors

Rihanna counts days now. Twelve left before she goes back to Ibadan. Twelve days of pretending her pulse doesn’t jump when Jake says her name.

On Thursday their cousin Amaka shows up unannounced. She’s twenty-seven, Mom’s sister’s daughter, loud laugh, bright lipstick, and the kind of confidence Rihanna envies and hates. Amaka works at a bank in Ikeja and always brings something — last time it was perfume, this time it’s a carton of malt and a box of chin-chin.

"Ah, Ri Ri! You don big!" Amaka pulls her into a hug that smells like cocoa butter. Then she sees Jake coming out of the bathroom in just a towel around his waist. She whistles. "Jake! See muscle. Na gym?"

Jake rubs his head, embarrassed. "No be gym, na suffering."

Amaka laughs and smacks his arm. She sits in the kitchen for an hour, gossiping with Mom, asking Jake about the apprenticeship, asking Rihanna about school and "any boy wey dey disturb you?" Rihanna shakes her head.

When Mom leaves to sleep before night shift, Amaka leans closer. "You two still dey like twins. Una dey do everything together?"

"Yes," Jake says.

"No," Rihanna says at the same time.

Amaka raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push.

Later, when Jake goes to buy fuel for the small generator, Amaka corners Rihanna by the sink.

"You dey look at him funny," she says, not smiling anymore.

"What?"

"Jake. Since you enter, your eye no dey comot for him back. Ri, abeg tell me say I dey imagine."

Rihanna’s throat closes. "You’re imagining."

Amaka stares, then sighs. "Good. Because that one na fire you no fit quench." She squeezes Rihanna’s wrist, hard. "No spoil your life."

She leaves before Jake returns. Rihanna washes the plates twice because her hands won’t stop shaking.

Jake comes back smelling of petrol and sweat. He dumps the keg by the door. "Amaka don go?"

"Yeah."

"You okay? You look..."

"I’m fine."

That night NEPA takes light again. They sit on the balcony with the generator humming downstairs — only for the fridge, Mom said, no wasting fuel. The city is dark except for the orange glow from other flats.

Jake is quieter than usual. He scrolls his phone, then puts it down.

"Amaka say something to you?"

Rihanna almost lies. Then doesn’t. "She said I look at you too much."

Jake goes still. "And?"

"And nothing."

He taps the railing twice. Tap-tap. Doesn’t look at her. "You know... back in secondary, Tunde from downstairs used to tell people we weren’t real siblings. Because we look different."

Rihanna remembers. Tunde used to follow them home and shout “bastards.” Jake beat him up once and got suspended.

"He was stupid," she says.

"Yeah." Jake’s voice is flat. "But sometimes... I wonder if Mom would tell us if..." He stops. Shakes his head. "Forget."

The air between them changes. Cold.

"Jake," Rihanna says before she can stop herself, "what if we weren’t?"

He turns then, finally. His face is half shadow. "What?"

"What if we weren’t brother and sister. Would you —"

"Don’t." His voice cuts. "Don’t say it, Ri."

"Why?"

"Because I know that face. That’s the same face you make before you do something stupid."

She stands up so fast the chair scrapes. "Maybe I’m tired of pretending!"

"Then go!" He stands too. "Go back to school! Stop looking at me like—"

"Like what?"

"Like I’m not your brother!"

The generator stutters below. For a second the only light is the phone in Jake’s hand. His eyes are angry, but something else too. Fear.

Rihanna feels sick. "Do you feel it?" she whispers.

Jake breathes out, slow. He doesn’t answer. He just walks past her, into the flat, and shuts the bedroom door. No tap-tap.

Rihanna stays on the balcony until her legs go numb. Inside, she hears him on a call, voice low. She catches one sentence before he hangs up: "...no, I can’t stay here with her anymore."

Her chest caves in.

When she finally goes inside, Jake is packing a small bag. Not everything. Just clothes. Soap.

"Where are you going?"

"David say I fit sleep for his place near shop. Till I get my own."

"Because of me."

He zips the bag. Doesn’t look at her. "Because of everything."

He leaves with his bike key in his hand. At the door he pauses. Doesn’t turn. "Don’t tell Mom."

Then he’s gone. The flat door clicks.

Rihanna stands in the middle of the living room, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, and realizes she can hear her own breathing. Too loud.

She picks up her phone. No messages. Ten days left.

She doesn’t sleep.