The first thing Chioma noticed when she walked into the operating theatre that morning was the absence of chatter.
Usually, the pre-op buzz filled the room—nurses exchanging notes, the anesthesiologist reviewing vitals aloud, the resident cracking a nervous joke. But today, there was only the hum of machines and the sharp scent of antiseptic.
And Mercy wasn't there.
Chioma adjusted her gloves. The patient was already sedated, a complex appendectomy. Straightforward, but delicate. She was the lead surgeon today. And as she made her incision, her mind tried to stay anchored in the task.
"Scalpel," she said.
"Scalpel," the scrub nurse echoed, handing it over.
As she worked, her thoughts wandered—not out of carelessness, but because ghosts don't stay put when you summon them. Mercy had turned in her confession. The hospital board had acknowledged it and had called for a full ethics inquiry. Everything was now in motion.
But Chioma wasn't thinking about Mercy's fall from grace.
She was thinking about how silence had shaped so much of their lives.
Five Years Ago
They were third-year residents, fatigued but hungry to prove themselves. Mercy had always stood out—not just because of her clinical brilliance but because she wielded charm like a scalpel. Precise. Calculated.
The patient was a middle-aged man with a complex cardiac history. Mercy had taken liberties with his medication dosage. Whether it was arrogance or desperation, Chioma never knew. But when he coded and died that night, the chart didn't match the reality.
And Mercy begged her.
"Just… just remove the last dose. He was deteriorating anyway."
Chioma hesitated. Mercy was her person. The friend who knew how she took her tea, who stayed the night the day Chioma's father died, who patched her through three heartbreaks.
So she did it.
Deleted the entry.
It wasn't heroic. It wasn't noble. It was desperate, and it cost Chioma more than her peace of mind.
It cost her trust—in Mercy, in the system, and in herself.
Present Day
The surgery went smoothly. Chioma removed her gloves and walked into the scrub room, letting the hot water run over her hands longer than necessary.
When she turned, Dr. Onwudiwe—her supervisor—was standing at the doorway.
"You have a visitor," he said.
Chioma wiped her hands. "Mercy?"
He nodded.
"She's in the atrium. I figured I'd warn you first."
Chioma gave a tight smile. "Thank you."
The atrium was bathed in amber sunlight, a sharp contrast to the sterile walls of the wards. Mercy was sitting on the far bench, a paper bag beside her.
"Bakery down the street," she said as Chioma approached. "They still make that banana bread you love."
Chioma sat beside her. "You remembered."
"I never forgot."
A pause stretched between them. Then Chioma asked, "Why didn't you confess sooner?"
Mercy turned to her. "Because every time I thought about it, I pictured your face. Not angry. Just… tired. And I hated that I had put that look there."
Chioma stared ahead. "I buried that man twice. Once in the ground. Once in the lie."
"I know."
Mercy held out the bag. "I'm leaving Lagos. Taking a suspension, maybe longer. I need to figure out who I am outside of this title."
Chioma didn't take the bread. Not yet.
"When I look at you," she said quietly, "I still see the friend who braided my hair during night shifts. But I also see the woman who made me complicit in something that still robs me of sleep."
Mercy nodded. "Both are true. And I'm not asking you to forget. I just didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."
She stood up.
"I'm sorry, Chi. And I hope one day, you'll find room in your heart to let some of that silence go."
Chioma didn't answer. She watched her walk away.
And then, slowly, she opened the bag.
Still warm. Still sweet. Still painful.
She took a bite.
Sometimes, grief tastes like the past.
But healing—real healing—tastes a lot like forgiveness in small, hesitant portions.
Two Days Later
The ethics committee's email was short, clinical. Mercy's license would be suspended pending full investigation. Chioma read the lines twice. Then she forwarded the email to herself—for recordkeeping, she told herself, though she didn't know what records she was preserving anymore.
She opened her locker. Inside was the old sketch Mercy had made of them during a slow ER night. Just stick figures with messy buns and surgical masks, but it made her laugh then.
She stared at it now. Then folded it carefully and slid it into her bag.
That evening, as the sun slipped behind the horizon, Chioma walked along the lagoon. The water had always calmed her. A reminder that life kept flowing, even when people didn't.
She sat on the bench and texted her younger brother:
"Hey. Ready to talk about Mum's scan results when you are."
Seconds later, he replied:
"Let's do it tonight. I'm ready."
Maybe silence wasn't just something you were trapped in.
Maybe it was something you could break.
And maybe, just maybe, she was ready.