Chapter 8: Shadows between two loves

The television sat mute in the corner, dust gathered on its frame. Outside, someone’s radio blared an old Onyeka Onwenu song, the kind Chi’s mother used to hum on Saturdays while sweeping. The music drifted through the window slats, mixing with the sharp sizzle from the frying pan.

Mimi wriggled free and ran toward her dollhouse, really just a shoebox painted with crayons. She knelt with all the seriousness of a builder laying foundation, whispering to her doll as if it could hear.

Amina plated the golden plantains, her movements neat and precise, like every action was a prayer for order. She set the plate on the table, glanced once more at Chi, then at Mimi, before speaking again.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite. “Maybe we should repaint the parlor. Something lighter. Yellow, maybe. Something bright.”

Chi nodded, grateful for the shift. “That would be nice.” Her voice wavered, too careful. She reached for a piece of plantain, letting the sweetness flood her mouth. Anything to stop the rising tide of thoughts.

But Amina’s tone was deliberate, her eyes steady. “Sometimes small changes make space for bigger ones. Don’t you think?”

Chi froze. The words struck like a riddle only she understood. Was Amina speaking of walls and paint, or of the shadows Chi tried to outrun? She forced a laugh. “You and your ideas. Let’s just finish renovating the roof first before dreaming of new colors.”

Amina smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Later, while Mimi napped on the couch, Chi sat by the window, phone in hand. She told herself she was only checking messages, but her thumb hovered over the one that mattered. Nonye’s name glared at her from the screen.

We should talk.

Just three words, but they had detonated something inside her. Nonye, with her crooked grin and careless voice, the girl who once dared her to love without apology. The girl she had left behind.

Chi stared at the text, her chest heavy with questions she dared not answer. What could Nonye possibly want now? And why did the thought of seeing her send both fear and longing coursing through her veins?

Behind her, Amina’s voice broke the silence. “You’re far away again.”

Chi startled, locking her phone and shoving it beneath a pillow. “I was just… thinking.”

“About work?” Amina’s brows lifted, skepticism wrapped in tenderness.

Chi nodded, the lie sharp in her throat. “Yes, work.”

Amina studied her a moment, then sighed. “Chi, I don’t need every detail. But don’t shut me out. I can feel it when you do.” She reached across the small space, her hand brushing Chi’s.

The touch burned, not with rejection, but with the weight of what Chi withheld. She squeezed Amina’s fingers back, forcing a smile. “I won’t.”

But inside, the truth was louder than her promise.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

That night, long after Mimi had been tucked in and the house hushed, Chi lay awake. The fan creaked overhead, slicing the darkness in uneven rhythms. Amina’s breathing beside her was steady, deep, a lullaby of trust.

Chi turned, studying her lover’s face softened in sleep. How unfair, she thought, that love could be this pure yet still not silence the ghosts of the past.

Her phone lit faintly under the pillow. Another message.

Tomorrow. Same place as before.

Chi’s heart thudded. Nonye was pulling at a thread she had worked years to weave into something whole. She could almost hear her voice again, see the rain glistening on her lashes, feel the reckless spark that had once set her aflame.

She looked back at Amina, her chest aching with the weight of choice. Stay wrapped in this fragile, hard-won peace—or step once more into a fire that might consume her.

She closed her eyes, gripping the sheet.

But sleep would not come.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

An hour later, Chi slipped from the bed. She moved with the stealth of someone trained by necessity, bare feet gliding across the cool floor, the door handle turned slowly so it wouldn’t squeak. She padded down the short hallway into the parlor.

The night pressed against the windows. The Onyeka song had long faded; now only the occasional bark of a distant dog punctuated the silence. Shadows stretched long and uneven across the walls.

Chi sat on the edge of the couch, unlocking her phone with a thumb that trembled slightly. The message glowed again. Nonye’s name. Tomorrow.

Her throat tightened.

She read it once. Twice. A third time. Each repetition pulling her back through years, through moments she had buried but never forgotten.

Like that night in Lagos, the air thick with humidity, when she and Nonye had sneaked into the parish church. The gate had been locked but Nonye knew a loose panel in the fence. They’d slipped through, stifling laughter as their shoulders brushed.

The church had loomed quiet and enormous, its stained-glass windows glowing faintly from a nearby streetlight. Inside, the air smelled of wax and old incense. Nonye had dared Chi to kneel at the altar with her.

“Let’s pretend,” Nonye had whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief. “That we are married. Just for tonight.”

Chi had laughed nervously, but when Nonye reached for her hand, she didn’t pull away. Together they had stood before the altar, two girls playing at vows they knew the world would never bless. Nonye had bowed her head, muttering words that sounded half like prayer, half like a promise. Chi remembered the way her chest had burned, the way her body had trembled with something too holy and too dangerous to name.

In the present, Chi smiled despite herself. The memory was a wound and a balm all at once.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it wasn’t Nonye.

“Congratulations! Your contract with Wazobia Design has been extended for six more months. We are deeply satisfied with your work and excited to continue the partnership.”

For a moment, relief surged through her. Work had always been her anchor, the one thing she could point to and say, this is mine. Yet even that joy felt fragile, like a paper lantern flickering in wind.

She was still staring at the email when footsteps padded behind her.

“Chi?”

Her whole body jolted. She locked the phone in a practiced motion, slid it face down on the couch, and turned.

Amina stood at the doorway, her hair mussed from sleep, wrapper loosely tied. Her eyes squinted against the dim light.

“What are you doing here?” she asked softly, voice thick with drowsiness.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Chi said quickly, forcing calm into her tone. “Just checking mail. They extended my contract.”

Amina’s gaze lingered, heavy with unspoken things. But she only nodded and walked closer, resting a hand briefly on Chi’s shoulder.

“That’s good,” she murmured. “Come back to bed.”

Chi swallowed, her pulse still erratic. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

Amina studied her a moment longer, then turned and padded back toward the bedroom.

When the silence returned, Chi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She picks up her phone lying it under her palm, its weight too heavy for such a small object.

The night around her seemed to lean closer, listening.

And Chi knew tomorrow was already waiting for her, sharp and inevitable, like a blade just beyond the dark.