In a poignant narrative of love, longing, and the tumultuous journey of self-discovery, meet Serwaa a young woman whose pursuit of a brighter future leads her down a path of regret, heartache, and unexpected twists. After turning down a marriage pro...
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Have you ever been so shocked that you were rendered silent? Stricken, unable to think or move, all you could do was shudder? Khalil was dead. Not asleep, but dead—and my friend, the person I had grown to admire and love the most in this world, had killed him.
I couldn't bear to look at the murderer. Numbly, I lifted Khalil's hand only to watch it fall lifelessly back to the floor. I checked for a pulse; there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Panic set in, and I began to sweat profusely, biting my lip so hard I thought I might draw blood.
Suddenly, Layla was beside me, quietly shutting the door behind her. She forced me to meet her gaze, her fingers abruptly tilting my chin upward. It was clear she sensed how my comfort around her had evaporated in an instant. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft but her eyes betraying her urgency as she wiped the tears from my face. "Listen, you have to help me get rid of the body."
The sentence made my head spin, and I felt a wave of dizziness crash over me. It felt like I was dying as I listened to her speak with the cold detachment of a serial killer. How could she not show any remorse? How could she seem so unaffected by what she had just done?
"How could you?" I yelled, brushing her hand away from my face. "How could you kill him? Oh my God, Khalil, please get up." My weeping was not gentle tears rolling down my face; it was violent, with phlegm streaming from my nose, choking on my own tears to the point where I couldn't breathe.
"Wow," Layla huffed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Nice way of saying thank you. This is nice." She looked hurt, as if I were the one at fault. Layla then grabbed my mat from the floor and, with surprising strength, dragged Khalil's body onto it. She wrapped him in the mat with the skill of an expert.
I watched her every move, numb with shock, as she mopped up the blood from the floor, erasing his presence with every vigorous scrub. I wanted to question her, to demand explanations I should have sought from the very beginning. But honestly, I was terrified of what her answers might be.
A knock at the door made my heart skip a beat, and I felt a rush of lightheaded paranoia. "Shush," Layla whispered urgently as I whimpered. "Go and see who it is," she ordered.
"No," I replied flatly. "Please, you don't want us to go to prison, do you?"
Us? Us? Was she serious? Swallowing hard, I numbly walked to the door, only to find my next-door neighbor standing there with a weary, questioning look.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "I heard what sounded like gunshots."
Before I could respond, Layla rushed to the door and nudged me aside. "Oh, she's fine. We were just watching a movie. Sorry for having the TV so loud," she explained with a convincing smile and a dismissive wave of her hand.
