Somma was going to die. It had been five years already and mama had been carrying her from one hospital to another. Whenever mama came back from the hospital, she entered the small room beside the kitchen where papa kept old newspapers and will not be seen till late in the evening. And each time she came out of the room, her eyes would have sacks beneath them, purple coloured sacks - like ripe avocado. Did we have the money to treat Somma?… of course we did - papa was an accountant in one of the most prestigious banks in Lagos, and mama was a lecturer in a private university, the one that insisted that all their students must pay fees amounting to millions of naira, and buy all the sophisticated books before they even show their faces in the lecture room. Papa had earlier said that only politician's children went to that university.

But then Somma was still dying, our money was useless. From morning till night, she lay on her bed, barely speaking, hardly moving her limbs, she just remained still. And each time I saw her that way, a strange felling would come up inside my chest, and my eyes would immediately get wet. I tried my best to be of assistance - always fetching her bathing water, checking on her at several intervals in a day, I even swept her room on Saturdays but then, she was still dying. Every passing day she looked weaker, more helpless and tired. Once, I asked mama what the problem was and she broke into tears, mama didn't talk to anyone for the rest of that day.

Then, one day, while I was washing papa's Toyota - his official business car -, I heard a shout from inside the house. It was mama's voice, the shout sounded just like aunty Ifunnanya's screams on her husband's burial. Before I could even rush into the house mama raced out carrying Somma, the way a mother would carry a newly born baby. She quickly unlocked the vehicle I had not finished washing, violently opened the doors, and dropped Somma at the back seat. In a split second she drove out of the compound towards the main road.

I was eating lunch when mama came back, Papa was with her. Strangely, even uncle Timothy and my cousin sister Nneka. The vigor and energy mama had used to rush out was gone, her face looked so pale. She was sitting at the front seat as papa drove in the car. When they came in I greeted them "welcome", and there was no response. But I was surprised, mama was not carrying Somma out of the car as she usually did. And just as I was about to ask, uncle Uche placed his hands on my shoulders, his eyes filled with pity, and what he said finally shattered me, "Somto, Somma is dead".