She was barely two years into the marriage. A toddler still at her breast. Money for soup folded into the knot of a faded akwete wrapper.
According to her husband, she fled into the long night and no one had heard from her since.
She had many names.
To some, she was Rotimi.
To friends, Timi.
To me, she was Sista — stretched with affection.
They did not know she stayed with me for two weeks after she left.
Her knock that night was timid — almost apologetic — like the child clinging to her wrapper. When I opened the door, she had the wide, startled eyes of a cornered animal. She did not greet me. She only asked for water.
She sat on the floor and held the plastic cup with both hands. After two cups, she lay down without untying her wrapper and slept for hours, the baby still curled against her.
She did not speak about it until the cut on her upper lip healed.
The swelling around her eyes could pass for puffiness if you did not look too closely. Under curious glances, her laughter rose too loud, too shrill.
“Yes,” she would say lightly, “I fell down the stairs. Very slippery if you are not careful.”
She lived in a bungalow.
Other times: “I hit the metal handle while opening the door.”
No one asked why the door fought back.
For two weeks, she borrowed my silence the way she borrowed my spare wrapper. Everything spooked her — the excited cries of “Up NEPA!” from the neighbours’ children, dogs barking at the sight of strangers, even my footsteps made her flinch.
And then one morning, the mattress where she and the baby slept was empty.
No wrapper. No child.
Only a note on the pillow that said:
Thank you.