The taxi driver and I are antsy. Occasionally, our eyes meet in the rear mirror, his to my bloodied shirt and mine to his phone. He's wise not to reach for it because my current state shouldn't mean anything to him. My bloody nose speaks volumes. The taxi driver and I are antsy. Occasionally, our eyes meet in the rear mirror, his to my bloodied shirt and mine to his phone. He's wise not to reach for it because my current state shouldn't mean anything to him. My bloody nose speaks volumes. The car comes to a stop. The driver waits for me to pay him. I don't bother searching my pockets for money.  "Wait here. I'll be right back." I try to shake the visceral feeling away and focus on the task at hand. The house is empty but I make a cautious step not to make any sound. I haven't stayed here for long to know where they all are; my aunt and her husband but I know who's here. Alice. She must be sleepi

JEWELL | Then   I don't think it was a coincidence—how I met the woman who's been declared dead for over a day now. It had to be fate because the timing was perfect. Exactly a week before she died.   That morning it was the chilling cold bathwater that woke me up and the never-ending ringing of my phone. I wished it hadn't that I could've waited in there until my fingertips became raw and pruned, and my palms a mass of wrinkled skin. I loved it when that happens, and I was reluctant to give the solace up.   My roommate's classes were earlier than mine so she'd rouse at the crack of dawn with such a douce mind I wondered how she even made it to the door without tripping.   The ringing ceased for a bit, and I cuddled deeper into the water, not feeling the foam anymore. It was in those times I felt I could drown if I ever wanted to, but then the thought would go away as quickly as it came making me ques

ALICE | Now   When you lose someone, there's a process you go through and it doesn't help that people keep staring at you.   They wait and anticipate your breakdown—the crashing of a chair against the wall, the loud declarations of denial, and the tears that'll glide effortlessly. The tears never come for me, not when we lost contact with mama and surprisingly not when I hear Eve's dead. Dead as a doornail. Gone like the wide.   As I walk in a daze, I take a stroll down memory lane and for some eerie reason, I can remember my childhood without the pain and the gory details.   Eve wrote poems and hanged them on her bedroom walls. They were everywhere; plastered firmly near the windows, by her bedside lamp and even on her wooden wardrobe. I loved scrutinizing them because it was one of those rare occasions; I got to see something pretty other than the blank walls with flaking white paint in my room. I

EVE | Then   I'm not going to tell you everything, Alice. Just the things I think you should know.   That night we hailed a taxi at the peak of the street- it wasn't really hard to find because there was a taxi rank just near the busy road. That side of the city had an intoxicating lifestyle I loved. There was a familiar tumultuous sound of horns blaring through the atmosphere.   Out there, the pollution was a little less, don't get me wrong. There was smoke from the exhaust pipes of crowded cars but this way when you rolled up the windows and switched on the air condition unit, you wouldn't smell a thing. Then there was the sweet scent of sizzling food from the restaurants and food vendors that lined up near the road. It was quite something. Nothing like the silent solitude of Golden Gate estate.   I watched as mama paid the driver before getting out of the yellow and

JEWELL | Then   The second time I see her, she is standing on the Boundary Road, near the N4 signboard, about to cross the road. I think she's about to because she's awfully near the asphalt, the tip of her flats peek over the sidewalk but she doesn't make a move. The red traffic light replaces the green hue in a heartbeat, halting the incoming vehicles. People brush past her to walk on the zebra crossing, but she stays rooted to her spot.   The woman is dressed in a light faded blue jeans with splashes of what I assume to be a creamy white paint on the front. The jeans are ripped in a way that tells me it was a DIY project, that, and the frayed edges at the soles. It clings to her skin and makes the lines of her thighs more prominent and unfortunately, so does the V-shape of her pelvis. I wonder if she notices.   I look around me, thinking that if someone near her takes notice, they should tell her. No one does because