03/10/2025
“Papa, why do you always stand by my window every single night with red clothes in your mouth?” That was what my younger brother, Ebuka, suddenly asked my father while we were still eating.
Everybody just froze. The spoon in my mother’s hand dropped back into her plate. I felt my body stiff, like I didn’t even know how to move again. Ebuka said it like normal talk, like it was something small, but the whole parlour suddenly became heavy.
My father just gave one small chuckle, the laugh was forced and he waved his hand like it was nonsense. “Ebuka, it was a dream you saw. Not me,” he said. But my mother’s eyes didn’t leave his face, and the way she was pressing her lips together, you could tell she was not comfortable at all.
I wanted to speak, but my mouth refused to open. Ebuka is just ten years old, the stubborn last born that likes to talk anyhow, but the thing he said was more than just normal talk.
Red clothes?
Every night?
By his window?
Me, I’m the first son, and I’ve heard similar things in this town, but I never expected it to land in my own house like this.
We continued eating, but the food had lost taste. Mama was forcing a smile, trying to distract everybody, telling Ebuka to stop watching too much film. Papa didn’t talk again. He just bent his head and kept chewing slowly, like a man thinking deep. Even my younger sister Ada didn’t touch her rice again.
After dinner, Ebuka kept repeating it. “I saw you, Papa. I see you almost every night. Sometimes you smile, sometimes you just stand there, watching me with the red cloth in your mouth.” He said it like he was sure, like he was even proud to say it. Mama told him to shut his mouth before he said nonsense again, but the damage was already done.
So that night, I lay down on my bed in the next room, staring at the ceiling fan. My father’s voice was quiet from the parlour, talking in low tune with Mama. I couldn’t hear all the words, but her voice sounded shaky, like she was begging him for som
