I woke up in the hospital room to my mother's worried face. Slowly a big smile spread across her lips.
"You're awake? Glory to God!" She clasped her hands and whispered a prayer. Then she leaned closer, peering into my face as I tried to wade through my befuddled memory.
What was I doing in the hospital in the first place?
Then it all came flooding back.
Then I noticed a woman standing by the window, watching me intently. she looked different—almost strange, but I didn't give it much thought.
She must be one of the hospital staff, I surmised.
Recovery was supposed to be the easy part. The surgery had gone well. The doctors smiled, reassured.
“The donor was a perfect match,” they said. “Your body accepted the kidney beautifully.”
On the third night home, after my discharge from the hospital, I woke to the sound of dripping water. Mom was staying with me to nurse me back to health, but she was fast asleep on the bed next to mine. Not wanting to wake her up, I quietly slipped out and made my way to the bathroom.
The taps were off. Yet in the dim bathroom light, droplets fell into the sink… crimson and slow. I turned on the lights—nothing. No blood. Just me, the mirror, and a reflection that wasn't mine.
It was hers.
The same woman I'd seen by the hospital window. I blinked, certain I was hallucinating. Then she was gone. As if I'd imagined her in the first place.
The mirror showed only me now. Shaking. Pale.
I tried to ignore it. Tried blaming it on the medicines I was taking....until stranger things began to happen.
I started craving things I hated. Bitter leaf soup, yam porridge, beans. My Boomplay app autoplayed Fuji songs I had never searched for. My mom, raised a brow.
“You have now become an ardent fan of Wasiu Ayinde?” she asked, laughing.
I shrugged. “I don't know.”
Then the dreams came, these were no mere dreams, they were like memories. Loud footsteps thudding in my head, angry voices.The taste of blood. Flashes of red and glass. The sensation of being pushed down the stairs. A scream in a voice that wasn’t mine.
At first, I thought it was PTSD. After all, I almost died. But it wasn’t fear I felt. It was anger.. rage...grief.
One morning, I woke up to find a sentence scrawled across my mirror in red lipstick:
“I need your help.”
I was sure I hadn’t written it. I didn’t even own that shade of lipstick.
Mom started noticing.
“You haven't been yourself lately,” she said one night. "Especially since the surgery."
The words chilled me.
“Maybe the whole experience changed me. Reminded me of how brief life is... and how one should take advantage of every moment.” I replied.
“Yes my dear,” she said slowly. “You are right.”
But I knew she was telling the truth, I felt the change myself.
There were no explanations for all that was happening so I decided to research my donor.... The person whose kidney gave me a new lease on life.The hospital was tight-lipped. Confidentiality and all that. But I had a friend—Liam—who worked in medical records. I begged. he caved.
Her name was Marilyn Ikechukwu, 25 years old. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. The file was hastily closed. Mother, the only next of kin.
That was all I needed to dig deeper.
That night, I had another dream. Of screams as someone fell down the stairs. Then nothing.
Her presence grew stronger as the days went by. I saw myself in places I hadn’t meant to go—dark alleys, bus stops, bridges, the street where she was found.
One day, I craved 'Suya', spicy smoked meat, sold on the streets by The Abokis, and my steps led me to one by the corner. Something inside me recoiled as a man passed closely by. He too had come to buy 'Suya' at that same spot. My knees buckled.
He turned. Smiled at me, politely, before walking away.
my heart hammered, while a voice whispered in my mind:
“That’s him.”
I quickly turned, just in time to see him driving away in a black SUV with the plate number AS OL 234 BA.
I knew I had to see this through. Whatever it was—possession, haunting, psychosis—it screamed for justice.
I dug deeper still, with the help of Liam. Marilyn had a boyfriend—Asemota Olayemi, son of a prominent senator. He hadn’t attended her funeral.
He was the owner of the black SUV.
I found him at a rooftop bar in Victoria Island. He looked surprised when I approached.
"The lady from the 'Suya' spot?
“I didn't know you had such an excellent memory,” I said.
He looked me up and down. “I don't forget a beautiful face.”
"Really? I'm here because I think I carry something that belonged to someone you once knew.”
Then I leaned forward as he seemed as confused as ever. “You remember Marilyn?”
His glass slipped slightly in his hand.
“I—of course,” he stammered. “We dated... But she died. Tragic. So tragic.”
“She was pregnant,” I said.
He froze. The glass fell and shattered.
“I know what you did,” I whispered. “I know about the fight. The staircase.”
He stared at me like I had grown horns.
“You’re insane,” he muttered. “Who are you?”
“I’m Chifu,” I said, my voice trembling. “But part of me is still her.”
He stood up sharply. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I'm out of here—”
Then I pulled out the phone from my handbag and played the recording. With Marilyn's help, I had been able to track down the maid, who was in the apartment the night of her death, and had recorded everything that transpired. It wasn't difficult convincing her to hand it over.
It was the one wish of a restless spirit.
His voice. His threats. His confession. The final scream as he pushed her down the stairs.
He went pale.
“You’re lying,” he whispered. “You can’t know these things—”
“I didn’t,” I said. “But she does.”
He tried to run. But people were waiting. Liam had brought reporters.
Justice, at last. For Marilyn.
Weeks passed.
The story went viral. The story of the woman whose kidney carried a soul’s last scream.
Marilyn's case was reopened. Her mother, found living in Enugu, finally got to bury her with dignity.
And me?
I still dream of her sometimes. Less often now. The cravings are fading. The blackouts are gone.
But sometimes I'm still afraid to look too long in the mirror.
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