Shadow before sunrise

sits there like an uninvited guest. It fills the space between words, seeps into footsteps, and

er to rain or shine. In Ajio, our small village outside Enugu, days often began wi

bo lullabies that always made my sister Chika cry. I had begged her to tell me the story again - the one about the river spirit who stole a baby and raised her in

or. The cooking pot was untouched. The water in the clay pot hadn't been f

. He didn't ask for her. He didn't seem to notice she was gone. He slump

ud. I overheard the woman from the next compound talking to Chika: "I heard there was trouble near the river

scent slowly fading from her wrapper, her shoes left untouched, her name never spoken again in that house. Baba f

mpossible when every corner of the house reminded me of her - the way she folded laundry, the

river water, but smiling. She hugged me and said, "I couldn't stay gone. I had

not wait for g

ough just twelve, took over the chores. I stopped speaking m

those books were windows. In Eze Goes to School, I saw a boy fight to learn. In The Joys of Motherhood, I found women s

an to

d a talking mirror that showed her the future. I wrote about a boy who could hear the thoughts of animals. But

sked me to stay behind. But she didn't scold me. She read the whole thing,

e said. "Don't ever le

lieve I might have something wort