VESSEL

  MENA The beauty of her father’s farm lived in the quiet confidence of his cows and the healthy robustness of his chickens. Dawn had barely stretched across the sky when Mena adjusted the feed trays inside the chicken cages, watching with soft amusement as the birds hurried toward the grain, pecking joyfully as though celebrating a feast. Her father’s booming laughter rang across the farmland,  “Haaa, my Chief! This is the best price you will get for these five cows. I am giving you the offer of a lifetime!” Mena peeked out from behind the chicken house, her gaze lingering on the well-adorned native attire that sat so gracefully on her father’s lean frame. Anyone hearing his voice without seeing him would imagine a robust man with a round belly and heavy shoulders. But Papa Mena was the exact opposite; tall, wiry, and effortlessly elegant in his simplicity. “Excuse me, Papa. I am done feeding the chickens,” she said quietly, holding up the empty feed sack. Her father’s eyes s...

 ZIBA “You are waiting for me to call you the fourth time, abi?” Mama Ziba shouted from the stuffy, clay-built kitchen, her voice filling the entire compound. Ziba scowled. She had heard her mother clearly the first time and already knew exactly what she was being summoned for. Still sprawled across the bamboo mattress, she grumbled, “I am coming, maaaaa.” “It is your father that you are dragging that ‘maaaaa’ for,” Mama Ziba muttered, grabbing the wooden spoon Mama Tiwa had gifted her during the last yam festival. With the stealth of a cat, she crept toward her daughter, who remained deeply engrossed in a shriveled old novel—the kind that had clearly survived several lifetimes. Mama Ziba didn’t miss her target. The spoon landed squarely across Ziba’s back. Ziba yelped, leapt to her feet, and dashed straight into her mother’s room to pick up the dirty plates that needed washing at the stream. “Why did you run? No, come back and tell me ‘maaaaa’ again. You are blessed—my mouth will ...

The days sped by like rushing winds. Graduation loomed closer, and I found myself poring over my yearbook, unable to believe how much had happened within a year. The loss of Mum. The sudden weight of responsibility, being both sister and mother to Chinaza. The countless nights of tears, balanced by God’s steady presence. And in the middle of it all, friends who never let me sink, and Tunde, always there, always steady. At a buka opposite the university, my friends laughed and bickered around me as we shared a fruit salad. Then, like a burst of sunshine, Chinaza rushed in, her school uniform slightly crumpled, her braids bouncing. She wrapped me in a bear hug, her backpack sliding off her shoulders.  I stared at her, pride swelling in my chest. She had borne Mum’s death with a maturity beyond her years. In truth, she had comforted me more than I had comforted her. As I brushed biscuit crumbs off her uniform, I whispered a silent promise to God: I will always look out for her. ...

The rain ushered us into Christmas. Heavy drops drummed on the rooftop, wrapping the house in a cold silence. That night, none of us stayed in our rooms, we huddled together in the parlour, blankets tangled, the faint glow of the Christmas tree painting our faces in soft gold. Six weeks had passed since Mum’s departure. Six weeks of fighting back tears, six weeks of holding on to Chinaza, six weeks of watching my friends fill our home with laughter and chatter so grief wouldn’t swallow me whole. Funke busied herself in the kitchen, the smell of jollof and fried chicken filling the air. Her parents had brought the Christmas tree, and Chinaza had been giddy decorating it. Every time her tiny hands couldn’t reach the higher branches, Alfred swooped her up with a playful groan. He carried her so often that by the end, he was practically the official tree decorator. The house felt alive again; food stacked in the kitchen, laughter bouncing off the walls, and yet, beneath it all, I still fel...

  The clatter of pots and the faint hum of voices woke me the next morning. For a moment, I thought I had dreamt it all. But the emptiness in my chest confirmed otherwise. Dragging myself downstairs, I found Chinaza at the table, her laughter like music in a house that suddenly felt foreign. “Good morning, Big Sis!” She wrapped her arms around me, pressing a kiss to my cheek. Funke was there too, bustling in the kitchen, placing a plate before me with a small, encouraging smile.  “Please eat,” she whispered. I obeyed silently, the food filling my stomach but not my spirit. My eyes caught Chinaza’s cheerful pout as she asked for bread, Funke teasing her in a mock country accent. The scene should have been normal, ordinary, but Mum’s absence was like a shadow over every corner. Two Weeks Later The house had become a revolving door of visits. Parents dropping by, neighbors whispering condolences, my friends refusing to leave my side. “Fresh air will help, Ada,” Funke’s mother rub...

  The Call The next afternoon, I yawned and stretched into my pillow when my phone buzzed. “Hey, new friend,” Tunde’s voice teased. “Good morning,” I said groggily. "It’s afternoon, actually.” I glanced at the clock. 2:30 p.m. Oh no. “You’re really enjoying this break,” he laughed. “Guilty.” “Good. Because I’m picking you up at 4:30. That gives you enough time to inform your mum.” Mum was away on a trip. I smiled. “Alright, sure.” After chores and a few playful protests from my younger sister, Chinaza, I finally slipped into my Ankara off-shoulder gown. Chinaza helped zip it up, standing on the bed, grumbling about catfish pepper soup as her “payment.” Funke texted back immediately: You better bring extra pomo. Love you. When Tunde’s convertible pulled into the compound, Chinaza clung to me. “I want to come with you.” “Aww, I’ll get you something,” he offered. “No.” She folded her arms. “C’mon,” Tunde pouted dramatically, making her giggle. Finally, she relented. “Okay. But take c...