The rain had been pouring non-stop since sunset. It was a sound that could both be seen and heard; the tapping and hammering on the rusted roof of Chuka's single room apartment were the only sounds that broke the silence of his solitude. The place was suffused with the smell of ancient books and stale air. On his desk were numerous envelopes, which were stuffed with the things he had written but not sent.
"Dear mother, I know you look me as a lazy boy who doesn't want to do anything. However, you are not aware of the battle I have with myself each morning. I wish to become the child you ask God for, but I feel that I am fading away."
The words spilled slowly. They came with effort, as if each one dragged a weight. He paused, hearing her voice in his head sharp, impatient. When will you get your life together?
It was a write-off for him, the pen slipped from his hand. He put up his palms against his face and gasped. He wanted to convince himself, but still, he knew that his mom was the last one who would understand. Yet, he was unable to send the letter. With a heavy heart, he unfolded, folded it into an envelope, and then placed it on the heap. A new one to add to the silence.
Time passed, and days grew into weeks, and nights were no different. Every night at his desk he was writing letters, sharing thoughts that he never dared to show. Some letters were just a few words, a sentence or two, scornful or sarcastic. Others developed into long confessions, some both remembered and forgotten of the past, full of suffering.
He wrote to his sister, who he had not communicated with for years. He wrote an old friend who once turned his back on him. He wrote a letter of farewell to a woman who had secretly escaped.
But most often, he wrote to himself.
"Chuka, you are tired in a way sleep cannot heal. You walk with silence on your back like a coffin. Maybe the truth is you have already buried yourself."
His desk became a graveyard of folded paper. Each envelope was a tombstone.
One afternoon, something changed.
He was at the corner store and brought back a bread and a coffee in his hand. At the entrance to his house, on the floor, there was an envelope. His name was written on it. But the handwriting was not his. He was standing rapt. His heartbeat got stronger and he bent down to take it. He opened it with trembling fingers.
"Chuka, truth be told, I don’t know how your letter got to me but it reached my heart. You don’t know me, but your sadness made me feel with you. Don’t throw in the towel. Even people you don’t know can love."
He read the note again. And again. His mouth went dry.
He rushed to the desk. The pile was there, but thinner. One envelope was missing. The one he had written weeks ago, addressed “To the world, if it even cares.”
It had been mailed. But not by him.
The days that followed only deepened the mystery. More letters disappeared. Each time, a reply arrived.
From his sister: “I didn’t know you were suffering this much. I thought you hated me. Maybe I was wrong.”
From his mother: “I only wanted you strong. I confused strength with silence. I wish I had listened.”
Chuka read each reply with tears burning his eyes. For the first time in years, he felt seen. He felt less alone.
But then came a reply that chilled him.
"You think writing excuses you? You let me die. You watched me sink and never reached out. Now you grieve in letters? Coward."
It was signed with a name he hadn’t written in years. Ifeanyi.
His childhood friend. The one who had taken his own life.
Chuka stopped breathing for a moment. The trembling in his hands was so intense that the letter dropped to the ground. How is it possible for someone who has passed away to send a reply?
The atmosphere in the room was suffocating, dense enough to make it difficult to breathe. He attempted to reassure himself that it was just his imagination. However, he then heard it.
A whisper. "Coward."
His heart constricted. He turned quickly, looking among the darkness. "No," he uttered, his voice shaking. "I didn't let you die. I didn't know it was that bad. I was suffocating as well."
The whisper grew louder. "Liar. You knew. You saw my decline."
The letters on the desk tore open, paper flying into the air as if a tempest had come into the room. Screams issued from the pages.
"You failed me!" "You never cared!" "You killed me!"
Chuka dropped to his knees, covering his ears, but the voices cut through. “Stop! Please, stop!”
And then, just as suddenly, silence.
The letters drifted back to the desk, landing neatly as if untouched. Only one envelope remained on the floor. No name written on it.
Hands trembling, he opened it.
"Chuka, your letters were not curses at all. They were calls for help. You believe that they bound you to your bygone days, but in fact, they rescued you. You are not dead yet. Stay alive if it is not for your own sake, then at least for those who still long to get a response from you."
He held the note tightly to his chest, his sight obscured by waterworks. A little while ago, he questioned whether life had more to offer than just quietness."
The days that followed were different. He still wrote, but the words shifted. He still confessed pain, but sometimes hope slipped in.
"I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But maybe tomorrow is worth waiting for."
And then one morning, he woke to find the desk empty. Every single letter was gone.
In their place was a single envelope.
"The silence is broken. Now live."
He kept on reading it over and over, as if it was some kind of life support for him.
After a very long time, he allowed himself to imagine that he might be able to make a new start.
That evening, on the verge of sleep, he felt a very soft and gentle voice whispering in his ear.
"Write to me, Chuka.Writing keep going."
Suddenly, he was awake standing by his bed was Ifeanyi. White, sunken-eyed, with a slight smile.
Moreover, he was holding a pen.
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