Not perfume heavy with money. Not the sharp, loud scents some women wore to announce their power.
Mirabel’s scent was softer. Clean. Familiar. The kind that had settled into his clothes after she hugged him, the kind that had made their bedroom smell like home.
His hands began to shake.
His throat burned.
He came behind her, reached out, and grabbed her arm.
Mirabel froze.
Her basket tilted. A yam shifted dangerously near the edge.
Jerry leaned in, voice low and broken, like he didn’t want the world to hear the madness inside him.
“Mirabel… how is it possible you are alive?”
Her body stiffened as if electricity ran through her. She didn’t scream. She didn’t slap him. She only turned her head slowly and looked at him.
And when she saw his face, her eyes filled up so fast it scared him.
Tears gathered there, heavy and real.
“Jerry,” she whispered, like she’d been holding his name inside her chest for too long.
The women around them went quiet.
A market woman holding ugu leaves frowned deeply. “Ah-ah! Wait, is that not Madam Okafor we heard died?”
Another woman hissed, “Keep your voice down. That’s Chief Jerry Okafor.”
But the crowd was already pulling closer, curiosity drawn by wealth and scandal like moths to a bright bulb. Phones lifted. Whispers spread.
Jerry felt the attention pressing against his skin, but he didn’t care. Not for a second.
He only cared about the trembling woman in front of him.
“Mirabel,” he said again, voice cracking now. “Your body is in the morgue. I was there. I saw it.”
Mirabel flinched like the word morgue slapped her.
Her fingers tightened around his wrist, pleading and terrified at the same time.
“Please,” she whispered. “Not here.”
Jerry opened his mouth, but no words came. His mind had too many doors and none of them led to safety.
Mirabel’s eyes scanned faces like she expected someone to step out from behind a pepper stall with a knife and a smile. Her shoulders rose and fell quickly, as if she was running without moving.
Then she leaned closer, voice small enough to almost vanish in the market noise.
“Jerry… don’t ask questions here. Just… take me away.”
Something in Jerry woke up, sharp and cold.
Move now.
He wrapped an arm around her, not like romance, but like a shield. He guided her through the crowd. Some women stepped back, shocked. Some followed. One woman shouted, half-laughing, half-fearful, “Awo! This one is film trick abi?”
Tundai’s eyes widened when they reached the SUV.
“Sir… that is—”
“Open the door,” Jerry said sharply.
Tundai obeyed immediately.
Mirabel climbed in quickly, pulling her headscarf lower over her face like cloth could hide the impossible. Jerry got in beside her. The door slammed, and the world outside felt distant, like a radio turned down.
Inside the SUV, there was only breathing.
Jerry stared at her. His hands were still shaking. His voice came out small, almost childish, like he was afraid the truth would disappear if he spoke too loudly.
“Mira… talk to me.”
Mirabel’s lips trembled. She looked down at her hands.
“I didn’t plan for you to see me like that,” she said softly.
“How else would I see you?” Jerry asked, and the grief rose again like a tide. “I attended meetings with a dead heart for one week. I haven’t slept. I’ve been going to the morgue like a madman, asking attendants to open the drawer again and again because I kept thinking maybe they made a mistake.”
Mirabel squeezed her eyes shut. A tear escaped.
Jerry leaned closer, voice rising without permission.
“Then today I come to the market to buy groceries like a normal man, trying to pretend life can still move forward, and I see you standing there like nothing happened.”
He looked away and pressed his palm against his forehead.
He was a billionaire, yes. He owned a glass office building in Victoria Island. People called him “sir” with fear. He controlled boardrooms and budgets and reputations.
Leave a Comment