My name is Adaeze. I was twenty, still in my second year at the university when I moved into a self-contained room on the second floor of a quiet compound. I sháred it with a third-year Accóunting student named Rita. She was 28 as of then. I got connected to her immediately I left the hostel to look for an apartment after my yr1.

Rita was calm, quite-skinny and tall. Almost too quiet. She hardly spoke unless necessary, and even then, her words were few and careful. During the day, she was neat, polite, and kept to herself. You wouldn’t hear a sound from her unless you asked her a direct question. To the outside world, she was just a normal student; focused, composed, and far from trouble But at night, something about her seemed off.

Whenever I’m awake at night reading, I’d hear her dressing up to leave the house. This occur every two or three nights. She would step out, dressed in ways that didn’t reflect the quiet Rita I knew by daylight. Heavy makeup, tight sèductive dresses, high heels. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just the sound of the door shutting softly behind her and silence. She came back late and I’d be the one to open the door for her.. Sometimes long after midnight and would go straight to her bed without saying a word. She had her own way of settling the gateman to always open the gate for her.

I never knew where she went, or what she did. She kept her life sealed shut like a book no one was allowed to open.

Even though she paid the bulk of our rent and most of the house bills—móney that always seemed to come from nowhere, I couldn’t help but worry. She uses the latest iphone and always donated good móney for foodstuffs and house runs. The things in my head; my assignments, fear of having carry over, school runs and all made me not to really have that time to investigate her.

Whenever she left the house for lectures, I was never truly sure if she actually went to class. I’d never seen her with a textbook or reading for even a single day. But somehow, she always managed to pass her courses. I knew this because I once stumbled on her semester result printout tucked inside one of her files; she was on a 3.2 CGPA.

Once, I gathered the courage to talk to her one of the evening. I wasn’t trying to judge; I was just worried.

I said softly, “Rita… How do you get the môney you spend. I don’t know where you go at night, but please, I just hope you’re safe. It’s dangerous out there.”

Then came the sláp.

At that moment she revealed her other side to me. Her eyes turned cold.

“You dey mád?” she spat.

“If I sláp you again eh! Better mind your business ! Abi you wan sleep outside?”

“If you no fit stay, carry your load and go. Mind your business. Na me dey feed you here.”

I was shocked..

I didn’t say anything after that. My spirît told me she was into H0ok-up. I just sat on my mattress, holding my face, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

She never apologized. Deep down, I knew.. silence was the only way to survive in that room with her. After that day, I stopped asking questions.. Not because I stopped caring, but because I realized she had built a wall I couldn’t climb, and I was scared she’d throw me out if I tried.

So I kept the house running; sweeping, going to church, lectures, cooking, managing what we had, and praying for her when she wasn’t looking.

Then one night, it happened.

That was in her final year.

It was past 1:30 AM when my phone rang. It was Rita.

Her voice was barely above a whisper:
“Adaeze It’s me. P…. Pl.. Plz open the door.”

I ran to unlock the door. She leaned against the frame, one hand was clutching her stomach. There was blóod. Some of it fresh, some dried, streaking down from the thighs of her shórt gown. She looked pale and scáred. Truly scared for the first time since I’d known her.

I asked what was wrong, but she didn’t answer. She brushed past me and headed straight to the bathroom. Moments later, I heard her vomiting. I stood frozen at the doorway, unsure of what to do. I had never seen anyone in such a terrible state.

I wanted to call someone, anyone. But who? Rita had no known friends, no emergency contact, no name she ever mentioned. She kept everything to herself even in pain.

I heard her gasp for breath.

When I rushed into the bathroom with my torch, she was already lying on the floor. Her eyes were half-open, unfocused, and foamy saliva was slowly spilling from the corners of her mouth. I knelt beside her, praying to God, trying to lift her up, but she wouldn’t let me. Her body convulsed—arms and legs flailing weakly, like she was fighting for air/life..

My eyes were soaked with tears. I kept whispering her name continuously but no response. By the time help came, she was confirmed dèad.

That night, I opened the door for Rita.
I never knew it would be the last time I’d see her. She never told me where she went or what she did. She took her secrets with her to the gráve.