She had changed. My sister, Nneka had changed. Over the phone, her voice no longer welcomed the careful sip of thin kindness or the positivity of a new day. She now spoke in a tone that was uncertain but certain. Uncertain of future opportunities and certain of approaching disappointment.
She no longer replied my calls by saying
" BROther, kedu?," in a flawlessly gracious style.
Her welcoming word on the phone was had become a fragile "hello", the type I heard the night she killed herself.
I stared at the suicide note which her friend Ije had given to me. A handwritten not in red ink. Penned down by her own hand, her tone official and terminating.
I curled up in my bed throughout that week and cried lowly, expecting her to come correct some of her errors in the note.
How she wrote abortion as abotion and how she spelt Kennedy with a single n. But she didn't come, I continued to hope she would, but my hopes faded when I dropped the note by her grave, Mama screamed behind me and I wished Nneka could hear the screams, perhaps she would come back, perhaps she would keep the child of her runaway lover. But she couldn't hear Mama's screams, she couldn't come back, she wouldn't return.