The Grief Calendar

January.

He went back to the room he used to share with her after he had been discharged and the police had taken his statement. He got away with a minor wound on his forehead that was covered with a plaster. The curtains were drawn and the lights turned off the way it always was whenever they were leaving the house. It would remain like that for a long time. 

The harmattan breeze couldn't get in but the dust crept in from places unseen and left a thick haze on the picture on the desk. He threw a pillow at it and it fell facedown. The voices of the mourners trooping in became white noise, drowning out the screeching and breaking and screaming in his head. They spoke in low tones in the sitting room, in Igbo and in English, relatives from his side and her side and he imagined them shaking their heads, sucking air between their teeth and snapping their fingers.

"Chai! The Devil is at work"

He dragged the sheets off the bed and laid it under the door. He didn't want to look at  their shoes as they shuffled to his door to say "Ndo. Sorry" before leaving.

February.

The dusty breeze howled outside and sometimes flung little pebbles and sand on the window, the harmattan protesting it's imminent demise. His legs were shaky whenever he stood to go to the bathroom, which was a few times because he forgot to drink water and his lips parched up and peeled away. His mother came in one morning and told him the burials were in two days time. The families had made the arrangements without him because they didn't want to add to his burden. She took the dirty food trays with barely touched food by the door. 

He didn't attend the burials.

March.

The heat was unbearable. Sweat rolled in rivulets down his back. It soaked his afro and ran down his face to soak his beard. It glued his back to the bed. He hadn't bothered replacing the sheets. The windows were still locked and when there was a power outage and the AC stopped working, he drowned in his own sweat. The room stank of guilt and misery. The first rain fell, but it couldn't calm the sun that penetrated the closed windows and curtains and lighted the room in a way he detested.

April.

The heat got worse. The numbers of the mourners dwindled to a stop. The hospital sent him emails, commiseratory at first. Then reminders. He switched off the sockets and watched his laptop and phone die.

His colleagues came around and stood in front of his door.

"Doctor, we would really love to help"

"We can't wait to have you back at the hospital"

"Take your time, but we are always here for you"

He lulled himself to troubled sleep and oblivion so he wouldn't have to listen to them. 

May.

The rains came. Light showers at first, starting suddenly in between sunshine, struggling to take its place like a growing tooth. The smell of sunbaked earth kissed by rain crept into the room. He remembered how Sarah loved the smell, how it reminded her of nzu, calabash chalk. And he wept.

June.

Nights got cooler as the rain became heavier. It fell mostly at night and drummed on the roofing sheets. It triggered the nightmares and he woke up sweaty and shivering. In the dreams, he saw the truck barrelling towards the car. He heard her shouts and Emma's cries as clear and loud as if they were in the room. He stopped sleeping and stayed awake most nights listening to the rain.

July.

His mother became irritated.

"You should leave this room. I can smell you even with the door closed. Forgive yourself, please"

She didn't bring trays of food to his door for days. He didn't notice.

August.

School was out for the long holidays. The children spilled out on the street to play. They sang songs they made up in their tiny voices and chased each other. He could single out the voices of the girls that used to come around the house to play with Emma. They avoided the house.

September.

His hair had grown into long, matted strings of dreadlocks. He went to the bathroom and cut them off with her sewing scissors. He closed his eyes as he cut them, he couldn't look at the mirror. When he was through, he stared at the tufts of hair that had fallen on  the dirty bathroom tiles for a long time before going back to bed. He didn't sweep it up.

October.

The rains went. Even though he didn't look outside, he knew everywhere was dry again. This was the month everyone started looking towards the end of the year. Sarah used to start Christmas shopping in October. He dreaded the end of year, his heart sank deeper into his stomach as the year rushed towards it end, confirming that what happened on the last day of the last year was real. That the twisted metal and shards of glass did not only belong in his nightmares. That Sarah and Emma were not coming back. That he killed his wife and child.

November.

The harmattan breeze and dust returned. This was the month she used to stock up Vaseline and lip balm. His elbows and every other joint turned ashy even though the breeze hadn't seen him. The udara fruit was in season. Someone kept a little basket of it in front of the room. He didn't pick it up and it went bad, with maggots crawling out of it.

December.

Dust began to creep in again. 

Someone knocked on the door. 

"Doctor Emeka, I know you're in there. It's Detective John. Details of the accident case have been reviewed and new witnesses came forward. The truck driver took his eyes off the road to take a call. You're innocent. You didn't kill your wife and child"

The door opened and the detective saw a pale man standing behind it weeping, clutching a picture of his family to his chest.