It happened on a Sunday morning. The earth was quiet, straining under the intimidating dryness of the harmattan wind. I was quiet too, the priest’s sermon still ringing like our school’s bells in my ear. I met her in the living room, where we lived, literally. She was sitting between the two battered mattresses, one filled with clothes mum left unkept in her rush for church. One of her dainty, almost sickly, hands was lost in the pile.

I walked cautiously. The sight of her dry unmoving lips sending cold chills through my oversized Sunday dress.

“Chioma” I whispered.

No smile, no whimper, no frown, no jumping and laughter at what should’ve been a joke. Just nothing.

Slowly, like the effects in the Indian movies we watch at Uncle Jumbo’s evening every Sunday, one we were both looking forward to today, I lift her hands.

Blood.

Lots of blood.

Trailing down her arms and staining mama’s musty wrappers.

Deep gushing cuts trail down her arm, creating beautifully deranged art.

My eyes gloss over, but not with tears, no, with blood. The substance running down her hands fills my senses and my veins are filled with molten.

I feel the scream before I hear it, scorching my throat with its intensity as it clogs my pores with pain.

I hear the ruckus, a distant sound ringing at the back of my head. People gather round, pushing me back and forth in their rush to witness this pain.

I know who did this. Chioma held the knife, but someone else cut. Hell I’m going to find him, and I’m going to cut deeper.