PICK YOUR CALL - by Big Dee

My sister never let me touch her Yara. She was particular about smelling nice. Even after sweating, she'd wrinkle her nose and reach for perfume. "If you smell anyhow, nobody will take you seriously," she'd say. Her Yara was a big pink bottle. Everyone said it smelled like rich aunty. She'd saved three months' allowance as a corps member to buy it after POP. Her first proper gift to herself. She kept it in her vanity like a trophy. She'd just started work as an admin officer at a private school in Badagry. The next day was inter-house sports, and she was on the committee. Because she was new but trusted, the school had let her use its old Corolla to run errands. She'd often keep malice over small things, but by evening, she'd ask if I'd eaten. That was us. That morning, I had my final-year defence. My perfume had finished, and I was late. I entered her room, sprayed Yara once and tossed the bottle into my bag, intending to return it later. I forgot. At 1:03 p.m., outside the lecture theatre, I saw her messages. "Where is my Yara?" "Kike, I told you not to touch it." "You carried it to school? Today is inter-house o. I need to smell nice." "Kike, pick your call." There was a voice note. 0:42. I pressed play. "Kike, you think your spoilt attitude will not catch you one day? Have I not warned you not to use my things without asking? You think everything is yours, abi?" I rolled my eyes. My fingers were already moving to type, "Sorry, I forgot it in the bag." Then I heard car horns. "Hold on. What's wrong with this brake sef? Ah! This brake dey fail! Jesus! Jesus!" Her breath scattered. Voice broke. Then loud noise. Then cut. I stared at the screen, then played the last few seconds again. Maybe I'd heard wrongly. Maybe she'd call back and tell me she was fine. I called her. Not reachable. Again. Not reachable. I called Mum. No answer. I left for Ajara on a bike. Nobody was home. My elder brother picked up when I called him. "Come to General Hospital, Badagry. Now." At the hospital, they wheeled her in on a stretcher. Her white work shirt was stained. The same shirt she'd ironed the night before. I stood there with my bag. The Yara was inside. Three minutes later, the doctor came out. He looked at my brother. "We lost her." I stared at my phone. The voice note was still there. Forty-two seconds of my sister's voice, saved like she could call me again. I played it once more. I heard her scolding me. I heard the horns. I heard her voice break. I had been about to apologise. Now, I couldn't. After the burial, I took the bottle out and placed it on my table. It sits there today, unopened. I cannot ever spray it.

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