Ifeanyi was six the first time his father told him he had killed a woman. Not just any woman, his own mother. She had died immediately after birthing him. The nurses tried to coax life into two bodies at once, but only one survived. Him. Whenever his father drank, he would point at the boy across the room and spit, “You killed your mother. From the day you were born, trouble has refused to leave my house. It's all your fault.”
The words stuck like rust on iron. And one thing about rust was that it crept and spread slowly until the whole iron was unsalvageable. Even as he grew older, Ifeanyi found that accusation trailing him in school, in church, in every cramped Lagos street his feet crossed. When a ball flew into a neighbor's compound during football games, it was always him. When a glass shattered in the kitchen, his name was the first his aunties called. Somehow, the world had learned to see him as the cause of everything broken.
Now, twenty years later, little had changed. Lagos seemed to conspire against him. During rush hour, when traffic was nearly at a standstill, he often seemed to attract curses and swears from honking drivers who drove behind him, like he was the cause of traffic. At the bank where he worked, whenever numbers didn’t add up or a client grew restless, the blame fell neatly on his shoulders. “Ifeanyi will fix it,” his boss would say, a hand slicing the air like a judge’s gavel.
By the time the sun fell behind Third Mainland Bridge that Thursday evening, Ifeanyi carried enough blame to sink a man twice his size. His shoulders drooped as he walked slowly to his car. He had almost gotten to his car when his phone rang. The call was from his girlfriend, Zichi.
“Hey, babe. How are you?” He asked immediately he picked the call.
“Don't even call me babe. Don't you dare.” Zichi’s angry voice filtered through the speakers. As he heard her voice, his shoulders drooped lower.
“What happened, Zichi? Why are you angry now?” He asked.
“How would you know, ehn? You don't care enough. You promised to send me some money so I could purchase more goods for my business. I told you there was a deadline for me to get those goods at a discounted price. I called the wholesaler today, she said the goods are finished.”
Ifeanyi sighed, “I’m really sorry, babe. I was going to send it soon. I haven't received my salary yet.”
“You always have excuses! Always! Other men are helping their women grow, but you just drag me back. You’re useless, Ifeanyi. Useless!” Her voice cracked with anger. Her words hit him to his core. He pressed his forehead against the roof of the car and whispered into the phone, “I said I’m sorry.” But she had already hung up.
His apology drifted into thin air. He stood there for a long time, phone hanging in his hand like a verdict. Around him, Lagos roared: engines coughing, hawkers shouting, the sea of bodies pushing past. Yet he felt isolated and trapped in that bubble of guilt his father had created for him since he was six. He got into his car and drove home silently.
The bank was suffocating the next morning. The generator had failed again, leaving the office sticky with heat and irritation. Keyboards clattered noisily, as people tried to work while using whatever they could find to fan themselves. Ifeanyi hunched over his desk, trying to balance figures on a client’s account. No matter how many times he cross-checked, the numbers refused to add up. He knew what would happen: the file would land on his boss’s desk, and once again the blame would fall on him once the discrepancy was discovered.
By noon, the inevitable happened. His boss stormed into the office, his face flushed with sweat and anger, “Who worked on Alhaji Hassan’s accounts?”
Heads lifted. Eyes shifted. And like iron to a magnet, every gaze settled on him.
“Ifeanyi,” his boss snapped, waving the file. "Explain this nonsense. Millions are missing in these transaction records. Whatever happens will be on you.”
The weight pressed down on him instantly. The voice of his father saying ”It’s all your fault ringing faintly in his head. But something in him broke loose. He had always soaked in blame whenever it was thrown at him. He had never tried to blame someone else for misfortunes. But one thing he had come to realize was that it was easy for people to throw blames until someone else carried the shame. He wondered how it would feel if he blamed someone else.
And before he could stop himself, he pointed across the room. "It wasn’t me, sir. Chuka handled that file.”
The words tasted like acid on his tongue. It felt weird throwing the blame at someone else. His boss frowned, and turned toward Chuka, the junior staff who sat two desks away.
Chuka’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Sir, it’s not me! I didn’t…”
“Keep quiet!” the boss cut him off angrily. "You think I won’t know your handiwork? You’ll face disciplinary action for this. Sorry for blaming you, Ifeanyi.” He slammed the file on Chuka’s desk and stalked back to his office.
The room buzzed with whispers. Chuka sat pale and trembling, staring at Ifeanyi like he’d never seen him before. But Ifeanyi felt lighter. There was a small hole in his bubble of guilt and for the first time in years, he could breathe.
The next week, Chuka was fired from his job with a debt attached to his sack letter. He was to pay back the millions that had gone missing. That day, Ifeanyi left the office in silence, but his mind dwelt on a single, terrifying realization: if you threw blame hard enough, it stuck. And when it stuck, it ate inside out.
**
For days after Chuka was fired, Ifeanyi walked through Lagos with a strange clarity. The city still buzzed with chaos and disorder. Conductors shouted, generators groaned, beggars tugged at sleeves. But to Ifeanyi, it felt like he was standing outside of it, looking in through a thin veil. He had found the crack in the world. He finally understood why people blamed others the way they did. It was easier for people to let others carry their shame, sadness and guilt for them. Ifeanyi decided to exercise this newfound reality.
It started small. On a Sunday, while walking to buy bread at the junction, a motorcyclist nearly hit him. The man cursed loudly at him. “Idiot! You wan die for road?” Without thinking, Ifeanyi shouted back, “Na your fault. You no dey look road.”
The words left his mouth sharply. The motorcyclist wobbled, lost balance, and crashed into a parked car. By the time a crowd gathered around him, he was already unconscious. Ifeanyi stood rooted to the spot, shaking. He wanted to feel guilt. But instead, he felt light; another weight lifted off his shoulder. Soon, Ifeanyi started dishing blames out to people. Those that deserved it and those that didn't. Each incident left Ifeanyi lighter and cleaner. It was as if he was finally shedding off the layers of rust he’d carried since childhood.
For the first time in his life, he was no longer the one to blame. For weeks, Ifeanyi walked lighter. At work, when a file went missing, he simply shrugged and pointed to someone else. Zichi learnt to stop quarreling too. At first she fought, cursing him for not sending money, for not caring enough, for not being like other men. But he had stopped apologizing. He let her anger burn itself out instead. One day, she broke up with him and never called again. He didn't feel remorse or sadness at her leaving. He merely shrugged and thought, “It's her fault she was never satisfied.”
Ifeanyi’s father died on a cool September morning after suffering a heart attack. His funeral was organized a month later. The old man’s funeral was crowded. The air was thick with sweat, grief, and the murmur of gossip. Ifeanyi sat in the front pew, his skin glistening with sweat. He kept his eyes on the coffin which kept the body of the man whose voice had haunted him all his life. The man who had spat those words that triggered a life of guilt, "You killed your mother. You’re the reason for my trouble.”
The pastor spoke about forgiveness, about letting go of bitterness and remembering the good in the departed. Heads nodded, “Amens” filled the room. But Ifeanyi only heard his father's bitter words ringing in his head When the time came for family members to speak, the MC called his name. He walked to the pulpit and faced the people who had come to mourn and grieve his father.
For a moment, the words caught in his throat. He thought of his childhood, of Lagos streets that accused him, of Zichi’s voice tearing him apart, of his boss’s complaints. He thought of all the years he had bent under guilt that was never his to carry. He looked at the coffin and drew in a deep breath.
“Everything that went wrong,” he began in a clear, steady voice that traveled across the church. “You always said it was my fault. From the very first day I took in breath.”
The hall fell silent. People coughed uncomfortably. “But today…”, His lips pulled into a small smile. He leaned closer to the microphone, his words cutting through the silence.
“Today, it's not my fault. I rid myself of the guilt and of all the blame. I am free of your accusing voice and pointing finger. It ends today.”
The hall stirred into confusion as Ifeanyi dropped the microphone and walked out of the church, breathing in his first sigh of true relief.
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