He walked through the crowd like a man chasing air, pushing past a man carrying onions, past a girl balancing a tray of sachet water, past two women who paused mid-argument just to stare at his polished shoes and the expensive watch that looked ridiculous in this place of dust and shouting.
He kept going until he was close enough to smell her.
Not perfume heavy with money. Not the sharp, loud scents some women wore to announce their power.
Mirabel’s scent was softer. Clean. Familiar. The kind that had settled into his clothes after she hugged him, the kind that had made their bedroom smell like home.
His hands began to shake.
His throat burned.
He came behind her, reached out, and grabbed her arm.
Mirabel froze.
Her basket tilted. A yam shifted dangerously near the edge.
Jerry leaned in, voice low and broken, like he didn’t want the world to hear the madness inside him.
“Mirabel… how is it possible you are alive?”
Her body stiffened as if electricity ran through her. She didn’t scream. She didn’t slap him. She only turned her head slowly and looked at him.
And when she saw his face, her eyes filled up so fast it scared him.
Tears gathered there, heavy and real.
“Jerry,” she whispered, like she’d been holding his name inside her chest for too long.
The women around them went quiet.
A market woman holding ugu leaves frowned deeply. “Ah-ah! Wait, is that not Madam Okafor we heard died?”
Another woman hissed, “Keep your voice down. That’s Chief Jerry Okafor.”
But the crowd was already pulling closer, curiosity drawn by wealth and scandal like moths to a bright bulb. Phones lifted. Whispers spread.
Jerry felt the attention pressing against his skin, but he didn’t care. Not for a second.
He only cared about the trembling woman in front of him.
“Mirabel,” he said again, voice cracking now. “Your body is in the morgue. I was there. I saw it.”
Mirabel flinched like the word morgue slapped her.
Her fingers tightened around his wrist, pleading and terrified at the same time.
