Then Enkiru said, “He said I was too expensive to keep alive.”
Kunle turned away and cursed under his breath.
Over the next few days, Enkiru told them pieces of the truth. Her husband, Obinna, had been giving her tablets for months. He said a doctor prescribed them, but she never saw any prescription. Every time she became weaker, he told her she was dramatic. Every time she asked to see a doctor alone, he refused. Every time she cried, he said she was making his life harder.
She also kept whispering one name in her fever.
Chisom.
When Mama Ifeoma asked who Chisom was, fear filled Enkiru’s eyes.
“Don’t ask me that yet,” she whispered.
So Mama waited.
On the third day, while Enkiru slept, Mama Ifeoma washed the few things found with her. There was almost nothing: a torn sandal, her muddy wrapper, and a small handkerchief. The corner of the handkerchief felt strangely thick, as if something had been stitched inside.
Mama took a knife and carefully opened it.
A folded paper slipped into her palm.
It was old and partly damaged, but official enough to make her heart beat faster. A land registration document. The land was not ordinary farmland. It was valuable property near the expanding edge of Enugu, the kind of land developers chased, the kind greedy people could kill for.
And beside the inheritance note was one name.
Enkiru Ezani.
That evening, Mama Ifeoma brought the paper to Enkiru.
The moment Enkiru saw it, her face drained of color.
“I haven’t seen this since before my wedding.”
Then the truth began to arrange itself.
Her father had once told her that some papers were like memory, and if the wrong hands touched them, the future could be rewritten. After her parents died, a metal box containing family documents disappeared. At that time, Obinna was not yet her husband, but he had already made himself useful to the family. He carried files, answered calls, settled errands, and everyone praised him as dependable.
After they married, whenever Enkiru asked about her father’s land, Obinna dismissed her. He said the land was probably worthless. He told her to stop listening to family stories and focus on being a wife.
“I wanted peace,” Enkiru said, tears trembling in her eyes. “That is what women are taught to want, isn’t it? Peace at any price.”
Mama Ifeoma looked at her. “Say the truth fully.”
Enkiru stared at the document.
