Chapter 7: When Ghosts Return

Chi stirred at dawn, light pushing its way through the thin curtains, warm against her eyelids. The sheets beside her were cold, empty. Amina’s scent lingered faintly, coconut oil, musk, something intimate but her presence was gone.

With a sigh, Chi reached for her phone. The screen blinked awake, and her heart stopped.

Nonye: I miss you.

Her breath caught. Two words, small on the surface, but heavy enough to crack her open.

The years between them collapsed, dragging her back into a memory she had sworn she had buried.

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Lagos had been drowning the first day they met. Rain fell like punishment, beating tin roofs and overflowing gutters. Chi’s umbrella was broken, ribs jutting out like wounded bones. She had been running, head bowed, when she heard it, Nonye’s laughter cutting through the storm.

It was rich, unbothered, the kind of laugh that bent air around it.

Chi looked up. Nonye leaned against a kiosk, braids soaked, cigarette balanced between her fingers as if she owned the street. Her eyes caught Chi’s and refused to let go.

“Your umbrella’s a waste,” she called out, smirking.

Chi should have kept walking should have brushed it off but something about that smirk loosened her. She laughed back, shoulders easing despite the rain.

And that was it. That was the moment her world shifted.

What followed was a firestorm, Nonye kissed like she wanted to brand Chi’s soul, touched her like she was carving her name into her skin. They loved as though the world wasn’t against them, as though Lagos itself couldn’t swallow them whole.

Chi remembered hotel rooms with peeling wallpaper, their sweat-slick bodies tangled in sheets, whispers that felt like declarations. She remembered Nonye’s voice, low and dangerous in the dark:

“It’s only us. Nobody else exists.”

And Chi had believed it. She had surrendered her heart, body, breath.

Until one morning, Nonye was gone, no note, no explanation, just silence.

And now, after all these years, “I miss you”.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Chi snapped back to the present, throat raw, chest tight. She set the phone down like it was fire, but the words burned anyway.

She barely heard the front door open.

“Mummy, Amina is back!” Mimi’s small voice floated in, followed by a chorus of laughter.

Chi froze, listening. Amina’s voice carried easily, warm, unguarded. “Eat your cereal, Mimi, not so fast. You’ll choke.”

“I’m not choking!” Mimi protested, giggling.

Their laughter filled the house, easy and bright.

Chi sat at the edge of the bed, staring at her phone, the glow of Nonye’s message burning into her eyes. Her chest clenched tighter with every laugh echoing from the kitchen.

Her daughter was giggling with the woman Chi risked everything for, while the ghost of the one who broke her still clawed at her heart.

Chi’s hands curled into fists. She glared at the phone screen, anger and longing crashing in waves.

And outside her door, Amina’s laugh rang again, soft and certain, as if she belonged here.

But ghosts didn’t care who lived in the present. They demanded to be remembered.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Chi tucked her phone under a pillow before stepping into the parlor. The smell of fried plantain clung to the air, sweet and heavy. Mimi was on the floor, her tiny hands clutching a doll with no left arm, giggling as Amina tickled her.

“See who finally woke up,” Amina teased without looking up, her dimple flashing as she reached for another slice of plantain.

Chi forced a smile. “You’re spoiling her. She won’t let me fry anything again.”

Amina laughed, but her eyes lifted and lingered. For a split second, Chi felt stripped bare. The same eyes that had held her steady through storms were now searching, probing, demanding truth.

“You look… distracted,” Amina said softly, almost casually. But Chi knew better.

“I’m just tired,” Chi replied too quickly, reaching for Mimi to break the gaze. Mimi squealed, climbing into her lap, arms wrapping tight around her neck.

The warmth should have soothed her. But all Chi could hear was the faint echo of a husky laugh in her memory, the rain-soaked image of Nonye leaning against that kiosk years ago.

She blinked, focusing back on the present. Amina was still watching. Not with suspicion yet, but with the kind of love that noticed cracks others would miss.

“Hmm,” Amina hummed, flipping the plantain. “Don’t carry the world on your head today. Eat first.”

Chi’s throat tightened. The room felt smaller, her secrets louder. She wanted to reach across the silence, confess the text that had shaken her, but fear locked her jaw.

Instead, she pressed a kiss to Mimi’s cheek, hiding behind her daughter’s laughter.

But she knew, Amina knew too. Even in the rhythm of their ordinary morning, a ghost had entered the room, and nothing would ever feel quite the same.