The Banter Square

Dear God,

“It started as a joke,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, her wide eyes holding a storm of pain. “Just another evening in the Banter Square, you know?” Her fingers trembled as she reached for her glass, barely managing to hold onto it.

My siblings and I… we came from a monogamous home, a happy one, a perfect one—or so we thought. We were never the richest family, but our wealth came from within. Love, laughter, and loyalty wove us together like the threads of an indestructible fabric.

And the Banter Square? Oh, that was our sacred ground. Under the old mango tree, we sat every Saturday evening after our personal Slave Master—our mother—had inspected and approved all chores. It was our time to breathe, to laugh, to be. We would munch on roasted groundnuts and banana, teasing, joking, playing games, sharing secrets. In that square, truth was currency, and the only law was silence—what was spoken there remained there.

Even as we grew older, moved into adulthood, the Banter Square remained only this time, we exchanged the mango tree for upscale restaurants. We used it to vet boyfriends, girlfriends, career plans, and family decisions. It was our anchor, our lifeline.

And it was the same Banter Square that tore us apart.

Chika looked at me, her face twisted in a pain I couldn’t comprehend. She was fighting herself, battling the weight of something unspeakable.

“Chy, it’s okay,” I whispered. “You don’t have to say it if you’re not ready. Some burdens are too heavy to share.”

She shook her head fiercely. “No. You must hear this. Someone has to hear this. Otherwise, I might explode.”

I swallowed, waiting.

She sucked in a shaky breath. “Am I like my mother?”

I blinked. What was I supposed to say to that? How could I know?

“Can I ever forgive her?” she continued, her voice rising. “I am scarred for life! I will never trust anything again! I am lost, Ifee. I am LOST!”

I reached for her hands, held them tight, willing her to calm down.

Then, she dropped the bombshell. “We took a DNA test.”

I frowned. “Why? Who?” “Your son? The one who looked like a carbon copy of his father. Of course, there was no doubt there.”

 

She laughed then, a bitter, broken laugh. “Not for Ethane.” “For my siblings,” she said, and I felt something cold crawl up my spine. “We took it for fun.”

A joke.

Just another stupid joke in the Banter Square.

I nodded slowly, waiting, my stomach knotting.

“Chuka and Richard were always at each other’s throats about who had the bigger forehead. We laughed about it, teased each other. It wasn’t that deep. We all looked like Mum anyway, except maybe Chuka and me—we had a little bit of Dad’s features. So, someone… I don’t even remember who suggested it. ‘Let’s do a DNA test!’ And we did.”

I didn’t know when I stopped breathing.

“And?” My voice cracked.

She stared at me, eyes empty, voice hollow. “We are not siblings.”

Silence.

Nothing moved. Not the air, not time, not even my heartbeat.

Then she collapsed into a heap of wailing. The sound ripped through me like a thousand knives.

Not siblings?

Father Lord in heaven, I know you like drama, but this? This is Nollywood, Hollywood, and Bollywood all at once. What are we supposed to do with this script, sir?

I sat frozen as Chika wept. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in.

Not siblings? The five of them? How?

I wanted to ask, but I didn’t.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.

Instead, I did what any sane person would do in this situation. I reached for my bottle of water, took a long sip, and stood up.

Since you like drama my Lord, Oya, continue, watch this movie for me, I’m stepp

ing out for a bit and checking in.