The last thing Emeka said to his little brother was, “Don’t sweat it, I’ve got you.” And that was the last time he ever saw him alive.
The day was just like any other. Lagos traffic was crazy as usual, drivers honking like mad dogs, and people moving without a care for the traffic rules. One could wander why they were always moving in such a restless manner. Were they running from something?
"Emeka, I don't want you people going out today, please. You know how Lagos riots can go haywire, make sure your brother, Chidi, stays in. Do you understand me? Their mother asked, tugging at her ear for emphasis.
"Yes, ma, I've heard you, he replied, his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop.
But Chidi wanted to go collect his new phone case, from the vendor, at Ebute.
He was wearing these sneakers he loved so much, said they made him feel fast. “Like I can outrun anything,” he said.
When Emeka looked up from his laptop, Chidi was already dressed to go out.
"Ah-ah, Chidi, you can't go out. Mommy gave strict instructions. So go back to your room and take off those shoes." He said sternly.
"Bro, It's just around the corner, besides the riot is not even happening nearby. And I promised the vendor I'd come pick it up today." He pouted.
" You can do that tomorrow." Emeka said with finality.
Chidi was twelve years younger and had been pampered by everyone, especially Emeka. His deep affection for his yonger brother often led to overindulgence.
“Ahn-ahn, you can escort me na? Don't be a bad brother o,” Chidi said, blackmailing him again with his signature mischievous grin. And, as always, it worked.
Emeka sighed. " Okay," he agreed reluctantly. Just let me finish this coding assignment.”
Chidi playfully threw a pillow at him. “That's my big bro.”
They left the house at 12:20 p.m.
By 12:45, everything shattered.
The police called it a “random accident.” A stray bullet during a chase. A botched robbery. They were at the wrong place at the wrong time.
As Emeka replayed the moment over and over again in his mind, the shout, the gunshot, the way Chidi’s body crumpled against his'. The blood. The screaming.
He had held Chidi’s head, rocking him, crying, whispering, “Don’t sweat it… You’ll be fine. You’ll be okay. Just don’t sleep, I beg you. Stay with me. Don’t sweat it…”
But he was already gone before help came.
After the burial, Emeka stopped living.
He stopped going out.
He dropped out from the University.
He couldn’t eat properly.
He couldn’t sleep.
Everywhere he looked, it was Chidi’s laughter echoing in the vast silence.
One night, he took out Chidi’s old sneakers. Dusty, worn, still smelling faintly of him. He remembered how Chidi used to dance around the house to Davido's songs, carefree and full of life. Emeka curled into a ball, clutching the sneakers as if he could will his brother back into his arms, and sobbed until every ounce of strength had left him.
He wanted to scream at the world, he was supposed to protect him!
Months passed. Emeka got worse.
Therapy was suggested.
He went. Looking so gaunt, as he sat in front of the woman, with the soft voice. She was Doctor Ife, but he told her nothing, for three weeks.
Until one day, she simply asked, “What’s the last thing you said to him?”
He looked up, eyes red and swollen. “Don’t sweat it.”
She nodded slowly. “And do you think he believed you?”
He blinked, unsure.
"He trusted me. I remember the way he looked at me when he was shot, like—like I should fix it, like I always did. He reached for me. He looked up to me." A fresh wave of sobs racked through his entire frame.
"And you were there, holding him."
"But he died, just like that. In my arms."
The doctor spoke softly;
" It wasn’t your fault, Emeka."
"But I was the big brother. I was supposed to say, “No, Chidi, stay home.” I should’ve listened to Mom. She told us not to go out.
Tell me what actually happened, everything, like it's happening right now."
Emeka hesitated, his voice trembled.
"Just take your time." The doctor said as she held his trembling hands in hers.
"It was just across the road from our house. The vendor wasn’t around when we got there, but he said he was on his way, when we called him. So we stood by his kiosk and waited. Then all of a sudden, we heard people shouting “Thief, thief!” it was a chase and gunshots started, like it was a war zone. I grabbed Chidi and pulled him behind the kiosk."
" And then?"
"He was still smiling. “Na wa o,” he said. “It's always one thing or the other, in Lagos .” Then he looked down and… and there was blood. Spreading on his shirt like ink.
Quietly, the doctor whispered,
"He didn’t know at first?"
"No, neither did I. It was so... sudden. Fast. Then he fell into my arms. He whispered, “Bro... what happened?” And I said... “Don’t sweat it. You’ll be fine. Don’t sleep. I’ve got you.” But he died right there. In my arms. His last breath… just... gone.
A long silence followed. Emeka’s shoulders trembled violently, as he sobbed uncontrollably. Tears spilling down everywhere.
After what seemed like a long time, the doctor spoke.
"What do you think he’d say if he saw you like this?"
Emeka raised his head as he attempted to smile through the tears.
"He was always so funny, my brother. He’d probably say, “Oga, snap out of it. You dey fall my hand.”
Then they both laugh quietly.
"And maybe he’d say, “Don’t sweat it, bro. You’ve still got things to do.” the doctor added.
"Yes, you are right. He always wanted me to finish that app I was building."
" Then do it. For him. For you. For both of you."
" Do you think he has forgiven me?" Emeka asked, his voice breaking.
" I think he never blamed you." The doctor replied gently.
Emeka never fully healed. You don’t really heal from something like that. But with time and therapy, and the quiet love of his mother, he started coding again. Started living again. Started going for walks again.
One evening, he finally summoned enough courage to enter Chidi's room. Everything was just as he had left it—untouched. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat and whispered softly;
“Don’t sweat it, bro. I’ve got you still.”
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