THE RED SAND IN MY HUSBAND’S POCKET HE GOT FROM A GRAVE

Adaeze didn’t sleep that night.

She stayed on the rug beside me until morning, her eyes fixed on the door like someone expecting trouble to return. I sat upright the whole night, my mind tangled between shock and disbelief. The image of that pregnant woman folding baby clothes inside the house Ebuka claimed was a “work site” kept replaying in my head — slow, haunting, impossible to erase.

My cheek still burned from the way he’d touched me in anger earlier. I didn’t even cry. I just sat there, silent, waiting for dawn like a prisoner waiting for judgment.

When the first light crept through the faded curtain, the house felt emptier than ever — as if Ebuka’s absence had hollowed out the air itself.

Around eight o’clock, Adaeze’s phone began to ring repeatedly. She hesitated before answering, then her face turned pale.

“Chioma,” she said softly, “they’re talking about Ebuka on the news.”

My heart dropped.
“What do you mean?”

She turned the speaker on. The voice from the radio app was grave, professional — one of those Lagos anchors who made even disasters sound rehearsed.

“Breaking news: several staff members of a major financial institution have been linked to suspicious land-related transactions. Authorities say investigations are ongoing. One of the names listed is… Mr. Ebuka Nwankwo.”

For a few seconds, neither of us moved. The air froze.

Then, like slow poison, the words sank in. My husband — the man who lectured everyone about integrity and hard work — was being called a criminal on national radio.

I stood up abruptly, my voice trembling. “Adaeze, where is he? He didn’t come home all night. What if something happened?”

Before she could respond, a knock thundered through the house.

We froze.

Adaeze opened the door slowly. Two men stood outside — plainclothes officers, holding up official ID cards.

“Good morning, ma,” one of them said politely. “We’re conducting routine inquiries about Mr. Ebuka Nwankwo. May we come in?”

They weren’t harsh, just formal. They asked when I last saw him, if he mentioned traveling, if he left any documents behind. I told them he hadn’t come home, that the last time I saw him was the previous evening. They nodded, handed me a contact card, and left as quietly as they came.

When the door closed, Adaeze’s eyes were red and wet.

Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the ceiling fan spinning slowly, groaning with each rotation.

Then my phone buzzed.
Uzo.

I hadn’t heard from him in days.

“Chioma,” his voice came through quickly, low and tense, “listen carefully — I don’t have much time. Someone’s been using Ebuka’s identity. They registered lands and properties under his name, but he didn’t approve those deals. That property in Ijebu-Akanni — it’s part of it. Check your house. If he brought any papers, files, anything strange — find them. And, Chioma… be careful who you trust.”

“Uzo, wait! What’s really going on—?”

The line cut.

I turned to Adaeze, my pulse pounding. “We need to check the room.”

We started searching — quietly, methodically. Every drawer, every wardrobe corner, even the old shoe boxes. When I lifted the last Ghana-Must-Go bag, I noticed a black leather satchel hidden behind it — one I’d never seen before.

Adaeze helped me pull it out. Inside were thick envelopes, stamped papers, and glossy photographs of land plots. Some bore company seals. In several, Ebuka was shaking hands with men I didn’t recognize.

A chill ran through me.

Adaeze whispered, “Chioma, these things… you need to keep them safe. If the authorities come back, you should hand them over properly.”

I nodded slowly. “Let’s put them in one box.”

We arranged the papers carefully, placed them inside a small wooden box, and tucked it in the corner of the wardrobe — not hidden, but ready, in case.

Moments later, a car stopped outside. My heart jumped — but it wasn’t Ebuka.

It was Mama.

She walked in with her wrapper tied tightly around her waist, her handbag pressed against her side. Her face was lined with worry, but her voice was calm.

“I felt something in my spirit,” she said. “That’s why I came.”

Adaeze explained everything. Mama listened without interrupting, nodding slowly as though she’d already suspected something dark beneath the surface.

When she finally spoke, her words hit deep.
“Chioma, no matter what happens, tell the truth. If your husband is innocent, the truth will fight for him. But don’t carry sins that aren’t yours. Fear will only bury you deeper.”

I broke down then — the tears I’d held back all night poured freely. She held me close and let me cry like a child again.

That evening, as the sun dipped, a message appeared on my phone.

Uzo: “Meet me at Yaba Market tomorrow by 10 a.m., near the book stalls. I’ll explain everything.”

I didn’t tell Mama or Adaeze. I simply said I was going to buy foodstuff.

The next morning, the streets felt heavier than usual. Yaba Market was already buzzing — traders shouting prices, buses honking, radios blasting gossip.

Uzo stood near a newspaper stand, cap pulled low. He looked anxious, eyes darting around.

“Chioma,” he said quickly, “things are worse than you think. There’s a network — people inside the system. They used Ebuka’s department to move land titles illegally. Some of those deals are tied to very dangerous names. I think Ebuka found out and tried to back out, but now they’re making him the scapegoat.”

I swallowed hard. “Where is he now?”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice trembling. “But he’s hiding for a reason. Those documents you found — they could expose everything. Keep them hidden. Don’t tell anyone where they are, not even Adaeze.”

Before I could ask more, the sound of sirens tore through the market.

Two government vans pulled up, lights flashing. People started scattering, shouting, ducking behind stalls.

Uzo’s eyes widened.
“They can’t see me here,” he whispered.

He turned and vanished into the crowd.

I tried to follow, but chaos swallowed everything — noise, dust, footsteps, fear. By the time the commotion settled, he was gone.

When I returned home, Mama and Adaeze were waiting by the door.

“Did you find him?” Adaeze asked.

I shook my head. “He disappeared before he could explain.”

I went to the room to look again at the documents, hoping for some clue. As I lifted one envelope, something fluttered out — a folded piece of paper.

A map.

It looked old, hand-drawn, stained with something reddish at the corners.

Right at the center, a large red X marked a place I knew too well: Ijebu-Akanni.

I stared at it, my heartbeat drumming in my ears.

That was where it all began — the strange land deal, the red sand in Ebuka’s pocket, the village he never wanted to talk about.

Whatever had been buried under that red soil wasn’t finished with us yet.

And deep down, I realized something chilling —
this story wasn’t about land anymore.
It was about what was buried with it.