ankara dresses hanging off bone-white headless mannequins. “Vero! Biko, nyem shirt for this boy.”
The woman stuck her head out of her kiosk. “Fifty naira!” she called back. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a hundred, handing it to the orange-seller. She looked at me in surprise, then waved it at the other woman, who nodded and came out with a black T-shirt that had a bedazzled crown on it. “This one will enter him,” she said. The orange-seller gave her the hundred naira and received fifty back. She tried to give it to me but I shook my head. “It’s okay, Ma.” I put the bag between my knees and took off my shirt right there on the road, pulling on the black one. It was a little tight but it fit. I put my bloody shirt and Nnemdi’s dress into the bag, and when I looked up, both women were staring at me.
“That’s how you just naked yourself outside your house?” said the clothes-seller.
“Mind your business,” the orange-seller told her. “Get home safe, you hear?” she said to me, and I nodded.
“Daalụ, Ma.”
There was still blood drying on my jeans, but they were dark, so they didn’t show much. I went straight to the bus stop and took a bus to Owerri. When I paid the conductor, some of the notes were stained with blood, but he didn’t even blink.
My parents weren’t home when I reached the house, so I took the key from under the mat and let myself in. I had enough time to take a bath and burn my bloodied clothes with the rubbish in the backyard, which I was supposed to burn anyway. I don’t know why I kept the dress, knotting it into that bag and putting it under my bed. I rinsed the necklace and kept it under my mattress, even though I risked my mother finding it if she came into my room. It was unlikely that she would. I couldn’t bury it—I just couldn’t.
I still remember the blood washing down the drain of the bathtub as I poured containers of water over my body, scrubbing myself until the water was clear and then pouring and scrubbing even more, going through buckets and buckets, until I had used all the water in the bathroom drum. I dried myself with a white towel, to make sure that not a drop of my cousin was left on me, then fetched water to refill the drum. Then I left the house, knowing it was only a matter of time before Uncle Chika would call to tell my father what had happened, and I didn’t want to be there to pick the call.
When I came home late that night, my parents were weeping in the sitting room. When they told me, I wept with them as if it was my first time.
I have pretended every day since then. I pretended with the girls and at the burial and with everyone. It was why I didn’t go to see anyone, why I stayed in Owerri. I needed to learn how to behave with this secret dropping petals inside me like this. I helped Aunty Kavita look for the necklace after she got me from Port Harcourt, as if I wouldn’t go home and pull it out, press it against my mouth, and choke back my sobs so that my parents wouldn’t hear.
When we told Aunty Kavita our theory that Vivek had gone out as Nnemdi and someone must have killed him during the riot, I could barely talk, my throat was swelling up so much. They thought it was grief. “The boys were very close,” my aunt said afterward, finally allowing other people the right to mourn her child. I listened to them wonder what had happened to the dress, knowing the whole time that it was hidden under my bed, soft and stiff. I watched my aunt cry as she imagined the suffering her Vivek had endured. I wanted to tell her that Nnemdi didn’t feel anything from the moment she fell, that she was asleep in my arms when she died, that there wasn’t pain like that, but I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. We had told her as much truth as she could handle. I was keeping the rest for myself.
So there I was with the dress, at the grave, sitting there as the sun washed up in diluted yellow. I didn’t know what time my aunt and uncle would