Written by Miracle Okah
Reader discretion is advised. This piece contains references to sexual violence and trauma.
You are seated among the rest of the family at your father’s funeral. When your mother called you for the first time in sixteen years to tell you he was dead, you said nothing.
You didn’t even know she had your phone number.
She sobbed quietly over the phone, as if she didn’t want to offend you. Then she asked, “Will you come?”
Without thinking, you said yes.
Now here you are. His face is everywhere: on banners, programmes, and even the backdrop behind the altar. The way he was smiling in every photo makes your throat twitch. Your hands start to shake. So you clasp them tightly in your lap, trying to make the trembling stop.
You look around and wonder if people are asking themselves, in the privacy of their minds, why everyone else is crying except you.
You swallow hard. It feels like forcing down a ball of Eba without soup. You remember stories of people who were so poor they had to eat like that — Eba and water. No pepper, no oil, just water.
You wonder if those stories were true. If they were, how did they swallow it? Did they choke like you feel you are about to? Did their chests tighten the way yours is now? Did they throw up afterward, or did they just swallow it back down, since even vomit was better than having an empty stomach?
Your brother is crying beside you; his shoulders are hunched and his body is trembling. You watch him as he keeps sniffing and wonder if something is wrong with you, just like your mother once said.
If you were to tell someone that you have not shed a single tear for your father, not when you first heard, not even now, they would probably eye you to death.
But how do you explain it? You feel nothing at all. Not sadness, not anger, not pity, not hate, nothing at all. All you feel is emptiness, a void that resonates in your chest like a low, dull drum.
You wonder if other people feel this way too or if this kind of numbness is just yours alone to feel.
When it is time for the eulogy, the minister calls your name. You freeze and your eyes widen. You feel your heart stop and your breath hitch. But before you can stand, your mother sees your face and shakes her head. She whispers something to the minister and sends your brother in your place.
Relief crashes over you like a wave but then it is followed by something colder. Shame? Guilt? You’re not sure which.
Your spine tingles and your hands begin to tremble again.
What if your mother hadn’t stopped him? What would you have said at the pulpit? Would any words have come out of your mouth? What do you say at the funeral of the man who destroyed you?
You look at your mother. It has been years, years since you last saw her. She looks older now, with streaks of grey in her hair. And yet, the memories of your last encounter still cling to your skin like sweat that just won’t dry.
Did she sleep that night?
Did she still snore the way she used to, like nothing had changed?
Did she gather the rest of the family at midnight to pray against the demon trying to tear her home apart?
Did she look for you?
Did she miss you?
Did she… still sleep with her husband?
If she had your number all this while, why didn’t she call?
You were only seventeen when you left, just seventeen, and somehow, you didn’t die. At least, not all of you anyway.
You wrap your arms around yourself, then let one hand slip down to pinch your palm, desperate to feel something real. Your chest tightens again and it feels like you can’t breathe. Like you are underwater, like you’re drowning in a room full of air. You close your eyes and take a long, shaky breath. One… two… three… just like your therapist taught you.
Then, you open your eyes and stare at your father’s picture. And without meaning to, you go back to that day.
It had been raining that day. You remember the sound of it—fat, angry drops slapping the roof like fists.
You had just returned from school, your uniform was damp, and your backpack was heavy. You were alone, and it was the perfect time to get some sleep. So you thought, “Let me sleep before mummy returns.” The house was quiet, and the rain made it feel safe, cocooned.
You were just starting to drift off when the door creaked open.
He stood there. Your father.
You were surprised to see him. He was supposed to be out, walking the streets of Lagos, looking for a job, just like your mother told him to that morning. But there he was, in your room. He staggered a little, like he had gulped a whole crate of Gulder.
You sat up, confused. “Daddy, are you okay?”
But before you could say more, he pushed you back down, hard. His big, rough hands, cold and calloused, clasped around your neck.
It didn’t feel real. Your body froze, as though it couldn’t make sense of what was happening.
He pinned you to the bed and rambled something about how he knew you had always wanted him to touch you.
“I’m giving you what you’ve always wanted, Elizabeth,” he said.
You tried to scream, but the weight of him crushed the sound in your throat.
He tore your skirt, shredded your pants, pulled down his trousers and forced himself inside you. Your body burned, like it was being split open from the inside. You remember the fire, the tearing, and the pain that felt endless.
He kept going. Over and over. Not caring that you were choking. That you were running out of breath. That you were dying.
When he was done, he stood up, adjusted himself, and staggered out of your room like nothing had happened.
You lay there, broken, motionless, and cold.
You didn’t know what had happened or what to do next, but you knew one thing.
You are Mary.
And your mother;
The one who squealed the day you showed her your blood-stained panties, the night you first saw your period…
The one whose subtle cry of joy made you feel proud as she gathered you in her arms…
The one who held your stained underwear like a trophy…
She, who wrapped you in her prayers but never in protection,
Her name was Elizabeth.
And when she came in that night, you saw something in her eye as she looked at you on the bed.
Maybe it was fear or disgust; you didn’t know.
But the moment she turned back and closed the door of your room,
You knew you could never fully look either of them in the eyes again, and so… you left.
About the Author:
Miracle Okah is the first daughter of two teachers. She initially dreamed of becoming a doctor but ultimately found her true calling in writing, where she discovered the power of words over stethoscopes. Passionate about African literature and amplifying the voices of Black women, her work has been featured in Amaka Studio, Black Ballad, Better to Speak, Black Girl X, and beyond. She is on the writing track for the 2025 Adventures Creators Programme.
