One week after Kaodili’s funeral, Jideokwu, her father was startled out of the nightmare that had been his life for more than a decade. Mgbankwo, his wife whom was sleeping in a couch at his bedside, long atoned to his moods, stirred from her half-sleep.
“Di m,” she whispered, hurrying to him in the half shadows cast by the moonbeams stealing through the wan curtains. She fussed at him, tucking and untucking the blanket on his sides. “Are you uncomfortable, eh?” She slipped her hand behind him head, lifted it slowly and arranged his pillows. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you comfortable in a minute so you can go back to sleep.”
“No, I’m fine,” Jideokwu replied, his words clear, his tone firm.
Mgbankwo froze, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Her husband’s voice was normal, strong, nothing like she had known since his stroke over ten years ago.
“Di m,” she breathed.
“Obi m,” Jideokwu said, raising paralytic hands to frame her face and rubbing her cheeks with his thumbs. “Why are you crying? Is something wrong with our daughter?”
“No, no, no,” instinctively, Mgbankwo sought to protect him from the pain that was wrecking her heart still. “She’s fine. She’s not here because she ah … she had her appendix removed today. She’s at the hospital.”
“Hospital?” He lifted himself on his elbows and stared at the door left open, except for a mosquito net, to let the fresh night air in. “Then, why is she standing outside? She’s calling me.”
Mgbankwo uttered a sharp cry, a short sound that she swallowed almost as soon as it left her lips.
“Don’t cry, Obi m. I’m just going to answer Kaodili.”
“No!” She lunged to close the door.
But Jideokwu laid back down, closed his eyes and slipped away.
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