They'd always say that I'm lucky 

Lucky to have been taken in after that accident.

Lucky that uncle Mike and aunty Rose provided shelter, clothing and school fees when I had lost everything at 5.

No one actually every asked what it felt like. 

To reside beneath the roof of those who smile so much at your sorrow.

To grow up with an empty space in you heart occupied with words your are forbidden from saying. Mum and Dad.

I'd address them as Uncle and Aunty even when they were officially called foster parents. Within me I knew. Something was definitely wrong somewhere. 

I can't forget these two things. A blue torch light and a small wooden tiger. My mother bought the torch while dad carved the tiger. 

Those were the only items left in my bag the day they died. Along with the blood stains.

Everyone says it's was a car crash. They ran into a trailer. That's what uncle Mike would say over and over again. He stammered the first time though. I'll never forget that. 

Time went by, they provided food and education and punished me if I asked too much questions. Aunty rose slapped me once for sketching my mother's face during art class. She claimed I had to move on. I never stopped grieving.

After turning 18 in January, I found the envelope. Hiding under uncle Mike's old records inside the box he always kept locked. I still wonder what pushed me to search. Maybe it was God. Maybe it was the silence I felt day and night.

There were 2 photos inside the envelope. 

The first was my parents damaged car. Another was a photo of them at a protest holding placards that read “land not for sale”

My parents fought to cancel a l land transaction. The same land uncle Mike owns now and have built a shopping plaza on.

I didn't shed tears. Not that same night though. 

I sat down in darkness turning on the torch, placing my hands over the groves of the wooden tiger. 

The plan came to mind so quickly. Though quietly. 

Some people would call or justice. But to me, it didn't have a name.

The whole house was calm the day I carried it out. There was power outage with the gen vibrating outside. She was in the kitchen peeling yam and singing "chineke idimma" as if she had any right to use that name. 

With the tiger in my pocket and the torch under my shirt, I walked in from behind and hit her so hard with the torch. So hard she collapsed before she could scream. Then there was silence as her blood soaked her up.

Then I went for uncle Mike who was listening to radio in the sitting room. The tiger was more sharp than I imagined. I drove it into his neck very forcefully. Until his lungs stopped begging for breath. 

After that I buried both the tiger and torchlight then washed my hands. It looked like a robbery to the police. There was no screaming said the neighbors. No one suspected it was me. I was still the lucky and rescued boy after all.

I still say sometimes and wonder if I would have been forgiven by my real parents. 

They might not have forgiven. Then might have said they didn't raise my for such. But I wasn't actually raise by them, was I ?

It's just me and silence now. But the difference feels different. Not that before a cry, but after it.

And in that moment, everything that was left behind stopped haunting me.