Nnnenna

Silence

“What did Nnenna really do to upset you?”

Aunty Ifunanya asked the question while stirring her tea, as if we were discussing gossip. As if the answer were simple.

I watched the sugar dissolve in my own cup: round and round. Disappearing.

“She didn’t upset me, Aunty.”

“Then why won’t you greet her? Why do you leave the room when she enters? Your own cousin.”

My own cousin.

I could tell her. I could say: Nnenna didn’t upset me. Uncle Emeka did. At her wedding reception, in the corridor outside the kitchen, when everyone was dancing and I was fourteen, he said I look grown now, pretty like my mother. When his hand moved from my shoulder to places that made my body freeze, made my voice disappear into my throat like sugar in tea.

I could say: Nnenna found us. Saw his hand. Saw my face. And she asked him. Him, not me, him - ”Is everything okay here?”

He said yes. Smiled. She nodded and walked away.

I could tell Aunty how I waited two weeks before I found the courage to tell Nnenna what really happened. How she looked at me with something like pity and annoyance, and said, “Are you sure? Uncle Emeka is a good man. A church elder.”

What does being good even mean?.

I could explain how she told me not to “spoil things” for the family. How she said I must have “misunderstood.” How she suggested - gently, like she was being kind - that maybe I shouldn’t wear certain clothes around married men. That I should be more careful.

Careful? As if I’d been careless with my own body. As if I’d misplaced my safety somewhere and simply needed to remember where I’d left it.

But I don’t say any of this to Aunty Ifunanya.

Instead, I say: “Nnenna didn’t do anything, Aunty. We just grew apart.”

She sighs, disappointed. “You young girls. So petty these days. Holding grudges over nothing.”

Nothing.

I finish my tea. Gulping hard.

Nnenna will call later, maybe. Or send a message: “Why are you being like this? What did I do?”

And I’ll want to scream: You did nothing. That was the problem. You did nothing.

But I won’t say that either.

Because I’ve learned that some truths make you the problem. Some truths make family gatherings awkward. Some truths are called “accusations”, “drama”, and “trying to spoil someone’s name.”

So instead, I’ll let them call me petty. Difficult. Stubborn.

I’ll let them wonder what Nnenna did to upset me.