Silence automatically has a weight in Gambe town, silence had descended like a mourning veil over the once-lively home of Julius. The cheerful rustling of maize stalks in the nearby fields, the hearty laughter that used to spill from the veranda where Julius once sat with his son, and the smell of Adaora's cooking wafting through the air all of it had vanished. In their place stood an eerie, breathless void. The home, now cold and abundance of joy, breathed grief through every brick.
Adaora sat at the edge of the old bamboo bed where she and Julius had spent countless nights whispering dreams into each other's ears. The mattress, which once cradled their love, now sagged beneath her despair. Her fingers, worn and trembling, clutched the corner of his faded wrapper. She hadn't washed it since he last wore it since the prison guards brought back his belongings like unwanted tokens of closure.
She buried her face in the wrapper again, inhaling whatever trace of him still lingered. But even the scent was beginning to fade, and that reality broke her anew. "Julius," she whispered, her voice cracking like dry leaves. "Why didn't they let me die in your place?"
Her voice echoed through the walls of the house, as if seeking an answer from the spirits that now seemed to reside in every corner. Her one-year-old son, Jordan, lay sleeping beside her, unaware of the thought that is all over his mother's soul. The day Julius died, a part of Adaora had died too. She had run barefoot through the village streets screaming his name, wailing as though her cries could summon him back. "They've killed my husband!" she cried, again and again. "He was innocent!"
People came out of their homes. Some looked on with pity, others with guilt. A few women wrapped their arms around her, pulling her from the dirt as she knelt, shaking uncontrollably. But no one had the courage to confront the king or challenge the unjust decree that had stolen Julius's life. The truth was known, but fear wore a crown in Gambe.
Now, her home bore the scars of that day. The front yard, once blooming with hibiscus flowers Julius had planted for her, was overgrown with weeds. The chicken coop stood empty, doors unhinged, feathers scattered like remnants of a happier time. Even the goats belated no more. Everything had withered, mourning with Adaora.
Every morning, she awoke not to the cock's crow, but to the ghost of a dream. Her ears played cruel tricks imagining Julius's voice calling her name or the sound of his footsteps returning from the farm. But it was always silent. Adaora no longer lit the hearth. Neighbors would bring her meals, but she barely ate. The once vibrant woman who filled the village with laughter now sat with hollow eyes and cracked lips, speaking only to her child or the walls.
As the day went by people, friends, relatives, even strangers came visiting, some brought food, others brought words. But what could words mend that grief had shattered?
"I'm sorry, Adaora," said old Nneka, a friend of the family, who sat beside her one afternoon, fanning her gently. "We all knew Julius was innocent. But no one dared speak. The king himself is a very dangerous man.
Adaora turned to her, eyes blazing with a mix of pain and fury. "Then what was your friendship for, Nneka? What use is a voice if it cannot speak the truth? They watched him die. You all watched him die." Tears fell down Nneka's face. She had no answer. None of them did.
Some nights, Adaora sat outside under the moonlight, rocking Jordan to sleep while humming the lullabies Julius used to sing. She told her baby stories of his father, how strong and kind he was, how he loved him more than life, and how he died not as a thief, but a hero framed by cowardice and power.
"Your father was a good man, Jordan," she would whisper. "He didn't steal. He was only in the wrong place, loved by the wrong people, envied by the wrong king."
The townspeople began to say that Adaora wales could be heard through the night, that even the trees bowed with grief as she wept. Some claimed the house was cursed, filled with the ghost of Julius's final cries. Others feared what such deep sorrow might birth.
Inside, Adaora would often sit on the floor, surrounded by Julius's farming tools. She refused to throw them away. Each one held a story about his favorite hoe, his basket, the cap he always wore. They were all she had left of him. The tools remained, untouched, coated in dust and the weight of memories. Children no longer played near her home. Women no longer gossiped in the yard. Adaora had become a ghost of the woman they knew, haunted, grieving, and unreachable.
But amidst all the sorrow, there was one thing she clung to Jordan. He was Julius's blood, his image in one picture. His laughter, when it came, was like a fleeting breeze through a locked room. Adaora would smile through her tears, holding him close, whispering promises she wasn't sure she could keep.
"You will grow strong, my son," she would murmur. "And one day one day, the truth will rise."
The priest of the village came by one day, offering prayers and blessings. "Adaora, you must let go," he said gently. "You must move on. For the boy's sake." She turned to him with eyes that had seen too much. "Move on? Have you ever buried your soul, Father? Have you ever watched the only man who ever loved you be taken from you like a thief in the night?"
The priest bowed his head and left in silence.
As weeks turned into months, Adaora's house became a symbol of sorrow, of injustice, of the pain Gambe tried to forget. People who had once avoided her began to bring offerings. Those who had stayed silent came to confess. A neighbor, Ugo, came with trembling lips.
"It was the king's brother, not Julius," he whispered one day. "I saw him take the bracelet. Julius just happened to be blamed. The king needed someone to suffer for the crime committed by his brother.
Adaora said nothing. She only nodded, tears streaking down her face. More visitors came, each bearing a piece of the buried truth. But none of it could bring Julius back. None of it could heal the gaping wound. Still, the more they spoke, the more Adaora felt her pain transforming not into peace, but into something else. Resolve.
She began to write. On tattered scrolls, she chronicled Julius's life, their love, his innocence, and the lies that killed him. She kept these hidden under the floorboards, vowing that one day, Jordan would read them and know his father's truth. In the heart of that empty home, where grief had built a shrine, Adaora began to plant something new. Not just in her son's heart, but in the hearts of those who came to listen.
And the house, once silenced by sorrow, now echoed with whispered stories, with the tears of visitors who had once been too afraid to speak. They cried, not just for Julius, but for the guilt they carried. Adaora received them with the quiet grace of someone who had nothing left to lose.
But at night, when the candles dimmed and the village hushed, Adaora would lay beside her child and stare at the ceiling, the scars in her soul bleeding afresh.
"Julius," she would whisper to the darkness. "I'll never forget. And neither will he."
And so, in that empty home, where love had been murdered and justice denied, a seed of truth had been planted waiting, quietly, for the day it would rise.
Visitors became fewer as the days passed. The initial shock wore off, and people returned to their lives. But Nneka's pain did not lessen. She wore the same mourning wrapper every day. Her hair remained uncombed. She refused to eat more than a few bites a day.
The house began to decay. The roof leaked when it rained. Rats crept in at night. But she could not bring herself to leave. This was where Julius last lived. This was where she would stay until the gods themselves called her.
One evening, a strange old man came to the house. He introduced himself only as Obidike, a wanderer who claimed to have the gift of sight. He looked around the home, his face turned.
"Gambe has wronged a man of light," Obidike replied. "It will see darkness until the wrong is corrected." After saying this the man left.
Those words haunted Adaora, each night, she clutched Jordan and rocked him in her arms, whispering lullabies through her tears.
The house no longer belonged to the living. It was a shrine, a tomb, a place haunted not by ghosts, but by injustice.