Six Feet Under

The massive weight of being the survivor.

That night, you lay still, silent, and watched the dark descend.

You saw it coming long before you switched off your phone and tossed it onto the old crate by the side of your bed that served as an improvised nightstand. You had begun to feel its tugs that morning, right after Ibili placed a warm, clammy hand on your forehead and asked, “What is it? Kedu?” But you held on. You smiled in that way you knew would ease her heart and said you were fine.

You did not stop at Mama Ify’s kiosk for cigarettes on your way home from work.

You did not take the tiny fingers Ify offered for the dance that had become your homecoming ritual.

You did not ask Obumneme, your neighbor, how school had been. You barely noticed the usual blush that rose on her cheeks whenever she saw you.

When you walked into your flat, you barely registered the disorder of the living room before crossing over to switch on the television. It did not help. For hours, you sat in front of it, yet you never saw what flickered across the screen.

Your eyes were fixed instead on the puddle outside the front yard, visible through the gap left by one missing louvre blade. The puddle was beautiful. The reflection of the fluorescent bulb from one of the flats in the boys’ quarters was cast perfectly in its surface. There were no edges of darkness, no shades of grey — just a perfect circle of light that tugged at your heart, pulling the strings of envy taut.

Then one of the neighbors’ cars drove in and over the puddle.

In those timeless seconds, the image of the bulb shattered — a mirage of scattered fragments swimming precariously, waiting, waiting…

You were surprised by the sudden leap of joy in your heart, born from the destruction of something so heartbreakingly beautiful.

You began to look away just as the image started to reform. You did not want to witness that recreation. You did not want to see that beauty become whole again. You did not want to be caught in the headlight of a new beginning.

But you couldn’t look away.

So you sat there on your threadbare couch, worn thin from countless bodies that had pressed into its surface, and watched the water settle, the pieces of white reassemble, until it was whole again.

You swiped a hand across your face and were startled by the rough stubble beneath your fingers — a reminder that at least that part of you was still real. Then you felt the moisture. You had not realized you had been crying.

You jerked up from the couch and turned off the television. You stalked into your room, threw yourself onto the bed, and slid your phone from your pocket. When you swiped down, the lesser surprise hit you: no notification.

There was no distraction now.

No stray thought to hold onto.

No lingering emotion from the day — none except that tug you had pushed aside, now blossoming into a brooding void, thick and silent.

You did not fight the dark when it came. It brought with it the sound of Fumilayo’s laughter, her scent, her jokes, her kisses — and then her face, emptied of everything, lying calmly in that hospital bed before the orderlies began to wrap her up. The images of the car crash on Ogui Road returned again, sharp and clear, tinged with the smell of cucumber and groundnut she had been eating.

How many times in the past year had you replayed that scene?

How many times had you thought vividly of joining her?

That dream where you made love to her and woke up with her scent on your skin — hadn’t you tried the overdose after that, the one that hadn’t worked?

But tonight, as the dark pressed down on your chest, you did not struggle as you usually did.

You did not try to lift your paralyzed limbs or whisper a prayer of survival to God or any other deity.

You let the dark in. You let it seep through your soul. You released the fear and let it do what you were too tired to do yourself. You passed the point of epiphany and hovered on the thin thread between being and unbeing when you saw Fumilayo.

She was enclosed within a fluorescent bulb, and she was crying. You tried to speak to her, but no sound escaped you. You tried to reach out, but your limbs were leaden. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. Still, you struggled.

It went on — moments colliding into minutes, minutes merging into hours — eternity itself folding over you. You could still see the bulb that held Fumilayo, still see her weeping.

Until suddenly, she burst into minuscule drops of light that cascaded down upon you.

And another one crawled out after several months. Please tell me your thoughts. (Be kind, ndi oma.) ✨✨