Nkechi did not lie, not that I didn’t already know it: the pieces of the remains of Loretta hung from the branches of the Christmas tree in the living-room -what remained of the Christmas tree. The harmattan air had dried the blood, and the parts were crispy to touch as we collected them and threw them into the plastic bowl Nkechi had fished out of the rubble. We didn’t say much, not to each other, but I said a lot in my head, a lot that I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to say out loud, like how the size of the pieces reminded me of the cow-meat Nkechi and I purchased from Ogige for Christmas. We fried it all and whatever remained was still in the plastic basket on the table in our kitchen. and I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish them anymore, seeing how similar to cow-meat the human flesh was.

Next, we searched for property, whatever the explosion didn’t burn with it. All that was redeemable was the stainless steel spoon we made fun of every year, that one spoon nobody liked but everyone needed just in case of a spoon emergency. This was an emergency alright, but I couldn’t quite figure out how the spoon could make this situation all about itself. And there lay another thought I wouldn’t be able to say out loud -that maybe Loretta’s spirit would need this spoon, that maybe the only way she would be able to rest in peace was if she provided a symbol, a sign, that it was okay for the spirits or the gods to eat the pieces of her flesh and bones that were now sitting alone in the living-room while we fished her kitchen for more redeemables. I hated the spoon even more, to think that there was the possibility of a realm where it wielded that much power. And yet, a part of me wanted to be it, to be the spoon. Loretta would disapprove of these thoughts, she would rotate her right arm around her head three times, snapping her fingers loudly at the third count before saying “Chukwu ekwena!” in the powerful way Christians emphasized it. Another forbidden thought: the irony in God approving the death of his most faithful servant. I would eventually say this one to Nkechi, would tell her that I’d laughed at it, and she would stroke my locs, unbelievably, while explaining all the possible ways shock could manifest itself.

“Possible gas leak,” the neighbour said, the tall one whose work uniform we still couldn’t decipher. “I’ve seen this before. It happened to my ex’s uncle’s brother-in-law. If you see the way the body burned ehn.” Nobody had asked for the information. And when we cleaned out the apartment -the rubble- I began to imagine that I would tell Loretta’s story in the same way, it happened to my girlfriend’s ex, if you see the way the explosion tore her body into pieces ehn. Then I paused to rethink it, to question if this was me rewriting history already in my head. Loretta no longer considered herself Nkechi’s ex, not before all that was left of her were pieces of flesh spread all over the apartment, not after she’d grown to become a devout follower of God. Because “…old things have passed away and, behold, all things have become new…”, she’d denounced being a lesbian -her old life- and she’d turned her life around to become as heterosexual as possible for Jesus. And Nkechi had stuck around, she claimed that I’d made her to. It happened to someone I used to know, if you see the way the explosion tore her into pieces ehn. Nkechi would never recover from this. I didn’t know that I would either, not in that moment.

When it was time to bury her and the undertakers lowered the rickety white casket, the only type her mother had been able to afford, into the grave, I wondered what the mortuary attendants must have done with her. I wondered if the new occupant of the earth was whole. Nkechi and I had filled the plastic bowl with Loretta and had needed to make-do with the dirty plastic bags we’d picked from the street, and I’d thought of something else -of how the mortuary attendants would have to guess which part belonged with which, if they would decide to put Loretta back together again. And I’d thought of that song, Humpty Dumpty, “…and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”

Nobody else cried, at least not as loudly as her mother. The woman threw herself into the grave several times until her eldest son commanded that she be bundled into the house -bundled because the men didn’t hold her like she had any grace, didn’t carry her like she was a human with emotions that were worthy. She was bundled into her house and someone remained at the door to make sure she wouldn’t leave the room to go interrupt the grave-diggers more. And we all talked about it: not that we thought that she’d been disrespected, but that we pitied her, pitied what it must feel like to lose a daughter. At least, she has more, someone said and I thought about that, thought about how children were born in large numbers for emergencies like this, emergencies where you lost one but remained grateful that you had others who were alive, un-lost. And I thought about my mother, wondered how often she felt like she’d failed at being human, being woman, for not having more children after me, more to make the grief of losing me easier. And when we pitied how swollen and red Loretta’s mother’s eyes were from crying, after the grave had been covered and they’d finally let the woman out, I wondered if this counted as a good excuse to call my mother; not long enough to hear the silence on the other end of course, not long enough to hear the regret of the indecision to speak to me or not, but just long enough to know that she’d thought of picking up her phone but chose not to, long enough for the ringer to ring uninterrupted. But I didn’t call.

I cleaned out the meat from the basket in my kitchen weeks later, sometime in the week that introduced February. I’d spent all of January at Nkechi’s because every time I’d walked into my kitchen and had had to look at the basket of meat, it’d taken me back to Loretta’s Christmas tree with the pieces of her all over it. And it was then that I’d finally cried, finally let myself grieve a loss I’d denied being mine. It was then, too, that everything began to come to light, all the details I’d thought I would never say out loud.

The clouds thickened as the words left my mouth and I knew this was it, a sign that I did control the world -some of the world, at least. The more I spoke, the darker the day became, and the clearer the images in my head; the images from the memory of the day Loretta died. And I savored it, this memory, tasted the blood fresh on my tongue. Nkechi wouldn’t believe it though, wouldn’t stop begging that I said less, and I thought, again, about things that I wouldn’t be able to say out loud. Except now, I could. Now, I could talk about the seething hatred I’d felt begin to build up the first day she’d introduced me to Loretta. Now, I could talk about the confusion, the inability to pick apart my feelings, to name them, tell them apart from each other because I’d begun to feel a lot and it had become incredibly difficult to let myself feel one at a time. Now, I could talk about what I’d done with this confusion, how I’d handled it because she’d left me no choice.

“What do you mean?” Nkechi cried. “I didn’t want to remain friends with her, but you insisted. How has this become my fault?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “But you didn’t have to yield though, did you?”

The earth yielded and the rains began to pour at about the same time I carved Loretta’s name across her breasts. Even in death, the woman persisted in my memory, in every nerve that ran through the length and breadth of my body. But when I looked at Nkechi, at the horrified yet blank eyes staring back at me as I hovered over her now lifeless body, I felt the satisfaction, the satisfaction I’d yearned for when I’d tried to eat the fried meat that reminded me of Loretta; the satisfaction that I’d craved while I’d placed the metal shards tactically around the gas cylinder in Loretta’s kitchen. I’d loved the taste of her blood on a shrapnel, and the feeling I’d felt right after but it was nothing compared to what I could feel now, this peace, filling my veins. And the louder the rain roared, the harder the wind groaned outside, the more symbolic this moment felt. The more I knew that the world belonged to me, that I had the power to conquer it.