The Things beneath Us

A grieving widow uncovers deadly secrets buried in love, loss, and tribal tension.

Morning in Independence Layout always started with a hum. The generators, the women sweeping their compounds, the water vendor’s bell clanging at the gate. Enugu lived in motion, every sound overlapping another, a kind of harmony built from endurance. Adaora stood on her balcony that morning, looking down the street where red dust had already settled on parked cars and the bread seller’s tray.

The house behind her smelled faintly of disinfectant. It had been only two weeks since Mama’s burial. The mourners were gone, but the silence they left behind had teeth. Tunde had been quiet too, quieter than grief should make a husband. He moved through the house like a visitor, sleeping in the guest room, talking only when necessary. He told her he needed space, and she tried to understand.
When she married him, against her father’s warning about Yoruba men and their smooth tongues, she had believed love could melt the distance between their tribes. Tunde was calm, educated, the kind of man who bought flowers from the woman near Ogui Road to make her smile. He called her “Ore mi,” my friend, and his laughter could fill a room. That laughter had not been heard in weeks.
On that morning, Adaora went to the kitchen to make pap. The electric kettle clicked as she plugged it in, the smell of the fermented corn rising like a memory. Outside, a rooster crowed late. Her sister, Nkem, was still asleep in the guest room. It was Nkem who had insisted on staying back after the burial, saying, “You need someone around, Ada. You’re too soft-hearted to stay alone.”
Tunde came in while Adaora was stirring sugar into two cups. His face was blank, his hair uncombed, and he wore the same black T-shirt from yesterday.
“You’re up early,” she said.
He nodded, glanced at the cups, then at her hands. “For me?”
“Yes. You like it with extra milk.”
He took the cup without thanks. She watched him drink, watched his throat move. Something about his silence unsettled her.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked.
“A bit,” he said. “I kept thinking about Mama.”
“She was a good woman,” Adaora whispered.
He looked at her, eyes narrowing. “You really think so?”
She frowned. “Of course. Why?”
Tunde smiled thinly. “People die, and suddenly everyone calls them good.” He turned away and set the cup down. “You didn’t notice how she looked at me. Like I was a mistake.”
Adaora froze. She had not expected him to say that out loud. Her mother’s disapproval had been quiet but unmistakable. “She just didn’t know you well enough.”
He laughed once, a short, complex sound. “No, Adaora. She knew me exactly.”
He left the kitchen then, and she stood there with her spoon dripping milk onto the counter. Something about how he said it, the finality, the conviction, lodged in her chest like a splinter.
Later that day, neighbors came to visit. Mrs Okwor from next door brought jollof rice in a foil pack. The compound filled briefly with polite chatter, but Tunde remained in his room. When Mrs Okwor asked if he was alright, Adaora smiled too quickly and said, “He’s just tired.”
By evening, the house was quiet again. The air smelled of rain and smoke. Nkem sat on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
“Sis,” she said, “have you noticed he doesn’t eat unless you’re watching?”
Adaora tried to laugh it off. “Grief makes people strange.”
Nkem looked unconvinced. “Grief doesn’t make someone lock the fridge.”
That night, Adaora woke to a sound. It was not the hum of the generator; this was softer and deliberate: a shuffle near the corridor. She rose, heart tight, and walked toward the sound. The corridor light was off; only the streetlight leaking through the curtains gave shape to things.
She saw Tunde standing by the window, phone light glinting on his face. He didn’t notice her. He was whispering, and the words were too low to catch. Then he paused, as if listening.
“Tunde?” she said.
He jumped, turned quickly, and hid the phone behind his back.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Go back to bed.”
The tone was wrong; sharp, final, unlike him. She hesitated, then did as he said. In the dark of her room, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something in their marriage had shifted into a place it wasn’t meant to go.
Two days later, Nkem disappeared.
Adaora woke to find her sister’s bed empty, her phone still charging by the wall. The window was open. She ran through the compound, calling her name, asking the gateman if he’d seen anyone leave. He shook his head, half-asleep. She called Tunde, who was already dressed for work.
“Nkem is gone,” she said, breathless.
He frowned. “Gone where?”
“I don’t know! She was here last night, she said she’d sleep in!”
Tunde placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe she went to buy something.”
“Without her phone?”
He didn’t answer.
By evening, panic had turned to dread. Adaora went to the police at the New Haven station and filed a report. They promised to check. When she returned home, the compound was dark except for the glow from their sitting room. Tunde was watching television, a comedy of all things.
“Did you hear from her?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Police will handle it.”
Something in her broke a little. She wanted him to be scared too, to feel what she felt, but his calm was like ice. She went to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and for the first time since the burial, she cried.
Days passed. No word. The police said they were still investigating. Life in Enugu continued; hawkers were calling out by the roadside, and children were running after keke napep, but Adaora moved through it like a ghost. Tunde began coming home late. When she asked where he went, he smiled and said, “You don’t need to know everything.”
That evening, rain began suddenly, the kind that turned streets into red rivers. The power went off. Adaora lit a candle and sat in the kitchen, staring at its flame. The candle’s wax pooled at the base like slow tears. She thought she heard something outside a car door, a thud, voices muffled by the rain. Then silence.
She stood, heart thumping. The compound gate creaked. Tunde entered, drenched, carrying a black nylon bag.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Groceries,” he said too quickly.
She went to take it from him, but he moved away. “I’ll handle it.”
The next morning, she found mud stains on the floor near the store room. The smell there was faint but wrong, like metal and something old. She opened the bag. Inside were wet, streaked with dirt, women's clothes. One was Nkem’s yellow blouse.
Adaora staggered back. Her mind screamed no, but her hands shook too hard to close the bag. She ran to confront him.
“Tunde! What is this?”
He looked at the bag, then at her. His face did not change.
“You shouldn’t have gone in there,” he said softly.
“Where is my sister?”
He stepped closer. “Adaora, sometimes you have to let things rest.”
“Tell me where she is!” she screamed.
He sighed, like a teacher disappointed in a child. “You shouldn’t have married outside your people. Your mother knew.”
Before she could move, he struck her. The slap sent her against the wall, the world spinning.
When she woke, her wrists were bound with rope. She was in the back seat of their car, the engine running. The smell of petrol filled her nose. Tunde was driving, humming under his breath. Rain had stopped, but thunder still rolled in the distance.
“Where are you taking me?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
She tried to loosen the rope, but his eyes caught her in the mirror. “Don’t,” he said.
The car turned off the main road, onto a narrow dirt path leading toward the hills outside Abakpa. The trees leaned close, their branches scratching the roof like fingers. Adaora’s pulse thudded in her ears.
“Tunde, please,” she said. “We can talk.”
He smiled faintly. “We talked too much already.”
When they stopped, he came around, opened the back door, and pulled her out. The night was cold, the ground soft beneath her bare feet. He opened the boot. Adaora saw the shape there before her mind could accept it. It was her sister, pale, lips parted, eyes open but unseeing.
Adaora’s scream echoed into the forest.
Tunde shoved her inside, slammed the boot, and the world went black.

--

At first, there was only the sound of her breath. Short, desperate gasps that filled the dark like whispers of the dead. The air in the trunk was thick, heavy with gasoline and decay. Adaora’s wrists burned from the rope. Every inch of her wanted to scream, but she bit it down. She could feel Nkem’s cold arm pressed against her side, and that, more than anything, told her it was real.

She began to move slowly, carefully testing the ropes, testing the trunk’s metal curve. When she kicked once, the car shifted slightly. Outside, the rain had stopped, replaced by the distant thrum of crickets. She could hear Tunde humming. It was that same hymn they used to sing on Sunday mornings. “It is well with my soul.”

Adaora’s mind splintered.
She forced herself to think. He’s driving slowly. The road is bad. If I wait until a bend...

When the car hit a pothole, she kicked with all the strength grief and terror could gather. The boot latch rattled, not open, but enough to make him stop.
“What are you doing back there?” he shouted.
She stayed still.

He got out and walked around. She heard his footsteps on gravel, then the key turning. The moment the boot opened, Adaora lunged. Her body slammed into his chest. They fell into the mud, rolling, limbs colliding. He shouted, tried to grab her hair, but she twisted free, sprinting into the darkness.

The forest swallowed her, and branches tore at her arms. She ran barefoot on cold and wet earth, the sound of his footsteps not far behind.

“Adaora!” he called. “You can’t run forever!”

The night felt alive with watching eyes. Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked. She stumbled, caught herself, and kept running. Her heart was a drum in her throat. She remembered her mother’s voice, soft but steady: When fear comes, Ada, breathe. Don’t let it choose for you.

She ducked beneath a fallen branch, crouched, and listened. Silence. Then his voice again, closer.
“You think you can leave me? After everything I did for you?”

She saw the glint of his flashlight cutting through the trees. He moved slowly, patiently, like a man sure of his victory. She crawled backward, trying to stay low, until her hand brushed something cold and metal. It was a rusted machete, half-buried in mud, probably left by a farmer.

She gripped it with trembling hands. The blade was dull but heavy. She waited, every nerve on edge.

When he came near, she saw his face clearly for the first time that night. Mud streaked his shirt, eyes wide and shining with something that was not love.
“Come home,” he said softly. “I forgive you.”

“Forgive me?” Adaora whispered. “For what?”
“For doubting me. For thinking you could live without me. You’re mine, Ada.”

She raised the machete, but he was faster. He caught her wrist, twisted hard until it dropped. She screamed. He shoved her against a tree, breath hot against her face.
“You should have stayed in your place,” he hissed. “You and that sister of yours.”

Adaora spat in his face. His eyes flared, and for a moment, something human flickered there. Hurt, confusion, then rage took it. He raised the machete, but before it could fall, she kneed him in the groin. He grunted, staggered, and she shoved him away. Both of them fell again, grappling in the mud.

Their struggle slid down a slight slope until they crashed against a rock. The machete flew from his hand. It landed just out of reach, half-buried in leaves.

They both saw it.

For a moment, neither moved. Their breaths came in ragged bursts. The forest watched, holding its own breath. Then they lunged.

Adaora’s fingers brushed the handle first, but his weight pinned her down. He wrenched it from her grasp and raised it high. The moonlight caught the blade like a silver tear.

“Please,” she gasped.

He hesitated. Just enough. Her knee drove upward again, and his hand loosened. She grabbed his wrist, twisted, and the blade slipped free. In one motion, she struck.

The sound that came out of him wasn’t human.

Blood soaked her hands, hot and shocking. But even as he fell, his arm shot forward, the machete’s edge catching her side. Pain bloomed like fire. They both went still. For a moment, it seemed the forest itself exhaled.

Tunde looked at her, disbelief in his fading eyes. “If I die... you die too.”
She smiled weakly through tears. “Then we’ll rest together.”

He tried to speak again, but the words never came. His head dropped. The forest swallowed the sound.

Adaora lay there, the machete slipping from her grip. The night blurred around her. She thought of Mama’s laugh, Nkem’s yellow blouse, and mornings filled with generator hum and hope. The stars above her shimmered through the tree canopy, faint, trembling.

Her breath slowed. For a second, she imagined she heard footsteps, soft, careful approaches through the undergrowth, but when she tried to turn, there was only the whisper of wind.

When dawn came, villagers from Umuchigbo found the car abandoned on the dirt road. The boot was open. Two bodies lay a few meters away, hands almost touching. No one spoke at first. The police came later, took photographs, and asked questions no one could answer.

Rumors spread, as they always did. Some said it was love turned madness. Others whispered it was a curse for an Igbo woman to marry outside her people. But those who had known Adaora truly know her, said nothing. They placed flowers on the spot where the earth had soaked her blood and prayed she had found peace.

Weeks later, the house in Independence Layout was rented out to another family. They painted the walls fresh and planted hibiscus by the gate. But sometimes, on quiet nights when the power failed and the generators slept, neighbors said they heard soft humming from the corridor to the tune of an old hymn.

And if you listened closely, you could almost hear her voice beneath it. Not weeping, just whispering.

It is well.


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