THE MIRROR IN HER ROOM

CHAPTER ONE: THE BLOOD ON HER LACE Nobody in Ajao Estate expected death to visit quietly, let alone arrive wearing lace. It was a hot Sunday morning. The kind when power had been out all night and the mosquitoes had formed a choir. Church bells rang from the Pentecostal church by the corner, and children chased sachets of pure water in the street. Housewives gossiped over smoky pots, men sat shirtless reading newspapers, and even the town drunk hadn’t started his rant. But by 11:04 a.m., the laughter would die.And Ajao Estate would never forget the girl in white lace. Her name was Tarela Okonkwo—twenty-two, university graduate, fellowship leader, virgin (as far as anyone knew), and the poster child of what a Nigerian daughter should be. If you passed her on the road, she’d greet you with both hands. If your child fell, she’d be the first to help. If you asked her mother, she'd tell you Tarela had never once raised her voice. So when Mama Uche, the compound cleaner, found her kneeling in Ijeoma Edeh’s room, blood up to her elbows, her lace soaked and stuck to her body like a second skin, everyone froze. The lace wasn’t just stained. It was dripping. > “Jesu! Hey! Tarela, wetin be dis?!”“Call the police! Call Father Michael! Call Pastor Dada!” She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just sat there, head slightly tilted, rocking back and forth, as if cradling something invisible. Her lips moved slowly, whispering an old hymn: "I surrender all... I surrender all..." On the floor beside her lay Ijeoma—lifeless, her body cold, her eyes open wide in horror. There were no signs of restraint. No forced entry. Just a straight cut across her throat, deep and deliberate. Almost surgical. Yet personal. Too personal. The crowd swelled by the minute. Neighbours peeped through curtain slits. Phone cameras flashed. One woman fainted. Two others began to pray. When the police arrived, they dragged Tarela out in silence. She didn’t resist. She didn’t say a word—until she passed a mirror in the corridor. Then her body jerked. She stared into it like she saw a ghost—or something worse. “She won’t stop screaming,” she mumbled.“She keeps pointing at the mirror. Even in death.” Her voice cracked. And then, she smiled.A crooked, unnatural smile. At the station, they tried to question her.Her answers were fragments. Sentences that made no sense. “She wore my perfume.”“She was reading my messages.”“He never loved her. He said I was different.”“There was something in her eyes—like she knew.” Detective Morenike Adebayo, a sharp woman with a reputation for sniffing out lies, sat across from her.“Why did you kill Ijeoma?” she asked. Tarela blinked. “Kill?”Then she leaned forward, her eyes glassy.“No. No, you’re mistaken. Ijeoma’s still alive. She’s… she’s right there.” She pointed to the corner of the room.Empty. Morenike sighed. Another case of madness? Maybe a drug-induced psychosis? But then Tarela’s expression changed—hardening in seconds.“She was a thief.”“She wanted everything. My friends. My body. My reflection.” Her voice had changed.Deeper. Sharper.Morenike shivered. “Who are you?” she asked softly. Tarela smiled again, but her eyes were empty. “I’m the one she buried.” That night, alone in the interrogation cell, Tarela scratched something into the cement floor using her fingernails. The night guard watching from the monitor room said she didn’t blink once. Not for hours. By morning, the words were clear: “LARA LIVES.”

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