Part 1: The missing granddaughter

The village of Obodo was all red dirt and tall, whispering mango trees. Ezinne had raised her own children here, and now, she was raising her granddaughter, Chiamaka.

Chiamaka was fourteen, too tall for her faded floral dress, and carrying a new, heavy quietness that sat deep behind her eyes. A quietness Ezinne knew, but never dared to speak.

Every evening, just as the air turned cool and the sky softened to lavender, Chiamaka would go out to hawk Ezinne’s groundnuts and palm oil near the main road.

" Don’t stay past the last light, my child,” Ezinne always cautioned, wiping a smudge of dust from her cheek. “The road swallows the light first.”

On the last evening, Chiamaka’s ‘Yes, Mama’ was softer than usual, a breath barely held. She pulled her wrapper tighter around her swollen belly, a secret visible to anyone who truly looked.

Ezinne watched her go, a small, dark shadow moving into the deeper shadows of the street. She felt a familiar knot of dread, but told herself it was just the evening chill.

The first star appeared, then the second. The familiar sounds of the village settled the cooking pots clanging, the generator sputtering, the men laughing. But the sound of Chiamaka’s footsteps did not return.

Ezinne went to the road. The main road was empty, slick with dew and the silence that only comes after every car has passed. She found only a small, empty tin cup and a single, forgotten groundnut. Days spun into weeks, and weeks bled into years. The groundnuts went unsold, and the palm oil turned thick and cloudy in its jar. People asked questions, but Ezinne only pointed to the empty road.

Now, the lavender sky still cools the air every evening. And every evening, Ezinne sits on her stool, listening not for footsteps, but for the soft, secret sound of a girl's distant, unkept promise.