Luke’s door opened slightly, letting a thin strip of light from the sitting room into the dark room. His grandmother peeked inside. The boy lay on the bed beneath the weak blue light cast across room by the television, his body stiff in its familiar way, one arm curled close to his chest, fingers trembling faintly. His eyes were half-open, unfocused, watching nothing. The room was bare: a shaky nightstand with a half-empty glass of water and one window left slightly open, letting in the distant noise of the city. They lived on the eighth floor of a tall apartment building—not high like the rich, but high enough for the wind to slip through the window gaps.
The grandmother watched him for a long moment, her eyes tracing his fragile form, the soft rise and fall of his chest in sleep. Then, with the same hushed care, she eased the door shut, the latch clicking softly into place.
In the sitting room, the evening light filtered through thin curtains, painting the space in muted oranges and grays. The glass coffee table, chipped at the edges from years of use, held a few scattered items: a remote control, an empty teacup, and an aged calabash bowl. The gourd was old, its surface etched with faint carvings, bound tightly with a thin strip of red cloth that had faded to a dull crimson. Inside, it cradled a fine dust of ground white chalk. The grandmother picked it up reverently, her gnarled fingers wrapping around its curve. From a drawer in the sideboard, she retrieved a sharp blade, its edge glinting coldly in the low light. Without a word, she slipped it into her pocket and stepped out into the hallway, the door locking behind her with a finality that echoed in the empty corridor.
The building was crowded and confusing, filled with small apartments where struggling families like theirs lived.
She passed two doors without a glance, her steps measured and silent, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. At the third, she paused, her hand hovering before pressing the buzzer. Once. Twice. The door swung open, revealing a young teen girl, perhaps fourteen, with wide curious eyes and a ponytail swaying as she tilted her head. "Can I help—"
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"Forgive me," Ebele whispered, her voice low and laced with remorse, the words barely escaping her lips.
The girl's brow furrowed in confusion, her mouth opening to respond, but Ebele moved like a shadow—swift, unhesitating. The blade flashed, slicing across the girl's throat in a precise arc. A gasp choked in her throat as her hands flew up, clutching at the wound, blood blooming hot and red between her fingers. Her eyes widened in shock, tears welling instantly, spilling down her cheeks as pain twisted her features. She stumbled backward, legs buckling, collapsing to the floor in a heap, her body convulsing weakly as life ebbed away.
Ebele stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She knelt beside the girl, she pressed the calabash to the girl's neck, letting the warm blood soak into the nzu dust, turning it thick and crimson. The girl twitched, her final breaths gurgling, but the old woman worked efficiently, murmuring a soft chant under her breath. When the life finally left the girl, she reached out and gently closed the her staring eyes, the lids fluttering shut under her touch. Rising, she left the apartment as quietly as she had entered, the door sealing the scene behind her.
Back in her own unit, Ebele moved with purpose, the weight of the calabash pulling at her arm. She entered Luke's room again, standing over his sleeping form like a sentinel. The TV droned on, oblivious, its blue light dancing across his peaceful face. She began to mutter incantations, her voice a low rumble, syllables twisting in the air like smoke. Two minutes passed, and gray smoke began to coil from the calabash, thick and acrid, filling the room like a storm cloud. Still chanting, she dipped her fingers into the blood-chalk mixture, the paste warm and sticky. She traced symbols across Jamal's body: swirling patterns on his chest, loops over his arms and legs, each stroke deliberate despite the tremor in her hand. Pain bloomed within her, sharp and unrelenting—blood trickled from her eyes like tears, seeped from her nose and ears in thin rivulets. She stumbled, gripping the bedframe to steady herself, but pressed on, the incantation unbroken.
Nearing the end, her voice strained but resolute, she drew a thick line beneath each of his eyes, the symbols glowing faintly in the dim light. Finally, with two firm strokes across his forehead, the lines trailed off as she crumpled lifelessly to the floor.
