The Weight of Silence: A Novella

 


The Weight of Silence

A Novella

Part One: Shadows on the Water

Chapter One – A Quiet Beginning

I was only twelve when the silence began to shape my world. Our house sat by the river in the Ijaw village of Oporoza, where the canoes lined up like sleeping animals and the mangroves whispered secrets to the tide. My father, Tare, was a fisherman, strong and patient, with arms built by years of rowing. My mother, Bini-ere, was known for her beauty—eyes that caught light like water, and laughter that used to fill our compound.

But that year, her laughter began to fade.

Chapter Two – The Stranger

He came into our lives quietly. His name was Tusa, a young apprentice newly brought into the village. He was lean, with restless eyes and a smile that never reached his heart.

I noticed the way he lingered near our compound, how his eyes searched for my mother when he thought no one saw. At first, I dismissed it as foolishness. But soon, the whispers began in my own heart.

Chapter Three – A Boy’s Eyes

Children see more than adults realize. One evening, I caught them—my mother and Tusa—at the back of the compound, their voices low, their shadows too close. My chest tightened.

When she saw me, she froze, and he slipped away like a thief.
“Seigha,” she whispered, “say nothing.”
I nodded, but my silence became a stone in my throat.

Part Two: Cracks Beneath the Surface

Chapter Four – Father’s Trust

Father knew nothing. Each dawn he went to the river, leaving his nets and his faith in Mother’s hands. He believed in her as he believed in the tide—that it would always return.

His trust made my silence heavier.

Chapter Five – The First Confrontation

I could not bear it. One afternoon, I followed Tusa to the jetty. My fists trembled as I grabbed his arm.
“Leave my mother alone,” I spat.

He laughed. “Small boy, you know nothing of women.”
I wanted to strike him, but fear chained me. He walked away, whistling, leaving me with my shame.

Chapter Six – The Seed of Hate

From that day, hatred grew in me—hatred for him, for her, for myself. I began to look at my mother differently. Every smile she gave my father felt false. Every word tasted of betrayal.

But I could not speak. My silence became my prison.

Part Three: Silence’s Prison

Chapter Seven – The Dreams

At night, I dreamed of water swallowing me whole. I would wake sweating, the croaking of frogs mocking me. The river itself seemed to know the secret, carrying it in its endless flow.

Chapter Eight – The Mask of Home

At home, we pretended. Mother cooked, Father laughed, I answered when spoken to. But beneath it all lay the unspoken. I grew older in those months, though my body remained a child’s.

Chapter Nine – A Glimpse of Freedom

Once, I thought of telling Father. But when I saw him mending his nets, humming softly, I could not. The truth would break him. So I swallowed it again, and the weight grew.

Chapter Ten – The Stranger Within

I began to hate my own reflection. I was no longer the carefree boy who swam in the river with friends. I was becoming something else—something hard, secretive, heavy.

Chapter Eleven – Mother’s Plea

One night, Mother came to my room. Her face was pale in the moonlight.
“Seigha,” she said, “you must not tell your father. Do you hear me?”
I looked at her and saw not my mother, but a woman bound by fear. I turned away without answering.

Part Four: The Weight of Silence

Chapter Twelve – The River’s Counsel

At the jetty, I found old Grandpa Amangi, mending his net.
“Why your face dey heavy like stone?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I muttered.
He laughed softly. “Nothing dey kill faster than the thing wey man call ‘nothing.’”
Then he spoke a proverb: “Seigha, toru-owei beye bu. When the river carries you, it carries both man and his secret.”
His words cut deep.

Chapter Thirteen – Tusa Returns in the Shadows

I thought he was gone. But I saw him again, lurking near the palm trees, eyes searching for our compound. Rage filled me, but I held back. Confrontation would bring disaster.

Chapter Fourteen – The Festival of Masks

During the dry season festival, the masquerades danced in raffia and paint. Drums thundered. People laughed.
But I saw beyond the joy. Everyone wore masks—not just the dancers. Father wore ignorance, Mother wore false smiles, I wore silence. The whole village was a festival of lies.

Chapter Fifteen – The Crack in the Wall

Rumors spread. Women at the market whispered:
“Bini-ere and that boy, Tusa… always too close.”
Fear gripped me. The wall of silence was cracking, and the truth was leaking like water through a broken canoe.

Part Five: Manhood in Pain

Chapter Sixteen – The Burden Grows

The whispers grew until I could no longer bear them. At home, Father remained proud, blind, happy. My silence became poison inside me.

Chapter Seventeen – A Son’s Confrontation

One night, I confronted Mother.
“Why Tusa? Why shame us?” I demanded.
Her face fell. “You cannot understand a woman’s hunger.”
I stepped back, choking on anger. For the first time, I saw her cry. But her tears could not cleanse her betrayal.

Chapter Eighteen – The River of Truth

The storm came when Father caught Tusa in our compound. His roar shook the night:
“Bini-ere! What is this?”
Mother fell to her knees. Tusa stammered.
I could not stay silent any longer. “Father, I have seen it all. It is true.”

The truth struck him like a spear. That night, the elders came to hold him back from killing Tusa. But though he lived, something in him died.

Epilogue – The Weight of Silence

Years passed. I became a man, a fisherman, a husband, a father. But the lessons of my boyhood stayed.

Silence can protect, but it also destroys.
Truth can heal, but it also kills.

The river taught me this: no secret stays buried forever.
And though I had spoken, my words came too late.

I remained Seigha, the boy who became a man through pain.


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