It rained heavily the day that Afam died. It was
mid-February. I still remember sitting by the
window in my room, listening to the staccato
beats of the rain on the roof. It was no surprise
that it rained that day in the dry season.
Afamefuna was deemed unique and loved by
all and it seemed only fitting for such a heavy
storm to accompany her death.
I still remember the hoarse sounds of my
mother’s cries and wondering at how different
her voice was. My mother’s voice had always
been as soft as a whisper with a laugh that
could best be described as a tinkling of bells.
That laugh that always tinkled more when Afam
said something funny or clever. Afam was
mother’s favourite; beautiful and with a heart
of gold. Afam had won the International African
Full scholarship grant to an American University
a month before her death and mother’s voice
telling me to ‘aspire to be like your sister,
Kamara’ still rang in my ears. Similar words
had been my mantra for years- Kamara, do this
like Afam did.
Afam had everything going for her. Maybe
that’s why it came as a shock to everyone that
Afam would drown in the pool she grew up
swimming in, that Afam would die on the eve
of her trip to America.
That day in February is still fresh in my
memory. It was not hard convincing Afam to go
for a swim; it was a hot afternoon afterall. I still
remember how her body had jerked violently as
I pushed and held her below the water. It
hadn’t taken much effort, she had always been
slight.
That day in February that my hate had grown to
cloud my eyes. The day I killed my sister.
THE END
