Okpara fola
@folaokpara6335
1 month ago
I pulled out my savings envelope on a Tuesday afternoon. September 12th, 2022. The money was in a wooden box my grandmother gave me.
Forty-seven thousand dollars.
Four years of working doubles at the diner. Two years of freelance graphic design on weekends. I had counted every single bill five times that morning.
Marcus showed up at my apartment at 7pm. He looked thin. His hoodie was the same one he wore to Dad's funeral three years ago. He wouldn't meet my eyes even then.
"Sarah, I need help," he said. Voice cracking.
I made him sit. Made him eat my leftover jollof rice. He pushed it around the plate.
"The business is failing. The supplier in Lagos stiffed me on the last shipment. If I don't get capital by Friday, I lose everything."
I wanted to believe him. He was my brother. The one who taught me how to ride a bike. The one who cried harder than me at our mother's funeral.
"Marcus, this is all I have. Every single dollar."
He finally looked at me. Tears streaming. "I swear on Momma's grave, I will pay you back in six months. With interest. I got a buyer lined up for the next batch."
I gave him the envelope.
He hugged me so tight I felt his ribs.
---
Three months passed. He stopped answering my calls.
I texted. Called. Left voicemails. Nothing.
Christmas came. He texted "Happy Holidays" with a snowflake emoji. No mention of the money.
I showed up at his apartment on January 3rd. His car was gone. His landlord said he moved out in November.
---
The turning point was a Thursday. February 16th, 2023.
I was at a black art gallery opening downtown, trying to distract myself. I had to sell my car. I was eating ramen four nights a week.
I saw him across the room.
He was wearing a brand new Balenciaga jacket. Laughing with some guy about a trip to Dubai. He had a drink in his hand. A Rolex on his wrist.
I walked up to him. He saw me. His face went gray.
"Marcus."
"Sarah, I can explain."
"Explain what? That you stole from me?"
He couldn't look at me. His eyes kept darting to the floor. To the painting behind me. Anywhere but my face.
"It's a gambling thing," he whispered. "I thought I could double it. I got addicted. I'm in a program now."
"Where is my money?"
"I don't have it. I don't have any of it."
I didn't cry. I just stood there. The gallery owner was playing some jazz. People were sipping wine. The world kept spinning while my insides collapsed.
"You killed Momma in me today," I said. Then I walked out.
---
That was eight months ago.
I'm still in my one-bedroom apartment. Still working the diner. Still freelancing on weekends. I'm rebuilding from zero.
Marcus sent me a letter last month. From rehab in Arizona. He wrote three pages. Said he's sorry. Said he's getting help. Said he doesn't expect forgiveness.
I haven't written back.
Some days I want to. Some days I want to burn the letter. Most days I just feel tired.
I still think about that envelope. The hours. The dreams I put on hold. The trust.
But I also think about a little boy who held my hand at the bus stop when I was seven. Who pushed me on the swings. Who said "I got you" when the world was too big.
That boy is still in there somewhere.
I just don't know if I ever get to see him again.
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14 days ago