Efe – The Lesson of Silence
The market was alive with colour, but Efe moved through it like a shadow. While her sisters argued over tomatoes and laughed with their usual chaos, she kept her gaze steady, her steps quiet, her basket half empty.
Haneefa watched her.
It was hard to understand Efe sometimes. She was the calm in the storm—but it was a calm that came with cold wind. There was something about her silence that made even the market women lower their voices when she passed. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. As if they'd seen that silence before—in themselves.
"She doesn't talk much, does she?" one of the younger cousin-sisters whispered.
"No," Haneefa said, still watching Efe from a distance. "But I think she feels more than all of us."
They were gathered by the pepper stall when Adunni, their mother, called for Efe sharply.
"Buy the ugu from Mama Ngozi," Adunni snapped. "She doesn't cheat people."
Efe didn't flinch. She nodded once and walked off without a word.
Bisola smirked. "That girl was born during thunder. No noise. Just aftermath."
Chiamaka chuckled softly. "And yet… she was the first one to fight that day Papa John tried to slap Mama."
Damilola shook her head. "Efe doesn't talk, but she remembers. Every betrayal. Every silence. Every half-love."
Haneefa couldn't take it anymore. She followed Efe to the vegetable stall.
They stood side by side, the only sound between them the clinking of coins and the rustle of leaves.
"Do you hate him?" Haneefa asked.
Efe didn't look at her. She picked up a bunch of leafy greens, inspected it, and dropped it again.
"I don't hate him," she said. "I hate the version of myself that begged him to stay."
Haneefa swallowed.
"He was gentle," Efe continued, her voice low, almost a whisper. "He never raised his hand. Never raised his voice. That's why it took me so long to see he was killing me slowly."
She looked up then. Her eyes weren't teary—but they were heavy.
"Sometimes," she said, "the men who hurt you most are the ones who smile the sweetest while they do it."
Haneefa stood still.
"He loved my strength. My independence. My silence," Efe went on. "He praised them. Said he'd never met a woman like me."
A pause.
"Then he spent two years trying to change me."
She laughed once—no joy in it. "He said I was 'too hard to read.' That I didn't need him enough. That I should learn to cry in front of him."
She turned to the vegetable seller. "Give me three bunches."
Then, back to Haneefa. "So I tried. I softened. I called first. I sent long texts. I said 'I miss you' before he did. I started folding myself into shapes I thought he'd recognize."
The woman handed her the vegetables.
Efe took them, handed over the cash, and said quietly, "And the more I changed, the less he saw me."
They began walking back toward the others.
"You ever love someone so deeply," Efe said, "that you become someone else, just to stay close to them—and then one day, they leave, and you're stuck with this stranger you've become?"
Haneefa's throat tightened. She reached for Efe's arm.
"You didn't deserve that."
"No," Efe agreed. "But deserve has nothing to do with what people do to you. Love isn't a reward. It's a reflection."
They walked past a stall where women were tying gele for a wedding.
Efe paused. Her eyes followed the bride, laughing in white lace.
"I was supposed to be a bride last year," she said. "Invites printed. Aso-ebi chosen. Cake paid for."
Haneefa gasped softly. "What happened?"
"He said he needed space. Said he loved me but wasn't ready. Said I was overwhelming."
She turned to Haneefa.
"I gave him my heart and he said it was too much."
Silence.
Then, finally, Haneefa asked, "So what did you do?"
Efe smiled. A small, sharp thing.
"I gave him back his ring, blocked his number, and left town for six months. Found myself in quiet places. In bus rides. In long walks. In markets like this."
She pointed to the basket in her hand. "And I found something else."
"What?"
"Myself."
They reached the rest of the sisters, who were now bargaining with the meat seller.
Before rejoining them, Efe turned to Haneefa one last time.
"I know you think silence is weakness," she said. "But sometimes, silence is what's left after strength."
Haneefa didn't reply. But the words stayed.
Efe stepped into the noise of her sisters with grace. She helped with the meat, laughed once when Chiamaka got blood on her dress, and kept her shoulders steady.
The air in the house was different when Efe was cooking. It wasn't just the food—though her stew was always rich, always perfectly balanced. It was the stillness, the way even the pots seemed to obey her silence.
Haneefa stood by the door, watching.
Efe didn't look up. Her hands were moving—peeling yam, slicing onions, adding them to the pot like it was a prayer.
"Why do you always cook in silence?" Haneefa asked, finally.
Efe stirred, gently, as if afraid to bruise the ingredients. "Because when I talk, I remember."
Haneefa took a seat.
"I want to hear it," she said.
For a moment, Efe didn't respond. But then she wiped her hands on a towel and sat beside her, the ladle still in her hand like a weapon she wasn't ready to let go of.
"I met him when I was twenty," she began. "Not too young to know better, but young enough to believe in slow love. He wasn't loud. He wasn't flashy. He just... showed up. At my lowest, when I was failing out of school, when Mama was in the hospital, when I hated my own reflection. He was there. With small gifts and gentle words and consistency."
She laughed, a bitter, quiet sound.
"And that's how slow death begins. Not with violence. Not with cheating. But with love that starts strong—and slowly fades while you're still holding on."
Haneefa listened, her chest tightening.
"He didn't break up with me, you know," Efe continued. "He just... reduced himself. Calls became texts. Dates turned into excuses. I stayed. I kept trying. I cooked, I prayed, I dressed up even when I felt ugly. I wanted to win him back."
She looked away. "But love isn't something you win. And no woman should have to audition to be chosen every day."
Haneefa reached for her hand. Efe didn't pull away.
"I watched him fall in love with someone else while he still had the keys to my apartment," Efe whispered. "He would come, eat my food, sleep in my bed—and leave without a trace of guilt. I became... invisible."
"You didn't deserve that," Haneefa said.
Efe smiled, the kind that broke your heart. "That's the thing about grief. It doesn't care what you deserve. It just arrives, uninvited. And sometimes it wears the face of the man you loved."
The soup began to boil.
Efe stood up, back to the pot, and continued. "Do you know what I learned?"
Haneefa looked up.
"Love that forgets you while you're still alive is the worst kind of ghost. You start to disappear slowly, piece by piece, until you can't even recognize your own laughter."
She took the pot off the fire. The air filled with the scent of pepper and thyme.
"You need to know this, Haneefa," she said. "Not all men will beat you. Some will just forget you. And the forgetting will feel like your fault."
Haneefa blinked back tears. "So how did you heal?"
"I didn't," Efe said honestly. "I just started building a life that didn't need him to exist."
She placed two plates on the table. "Eat," she said gently. "Not every lesson has to be learned hungry."
And as they sat to eat, Efe added quietly, "The next sister you'll learn from is Grace. But be careful. Her lesson is the loudest. And not everyone survives it."