STAND UP. BUT BEFORE YOU DO, whisper excuses into Baby's right ear, like the need to stretch your aching joints for a while. Now stroll to the balcony. You see? She's there like the other times. Only that this time she's not a bleak figure; she's as clear as the half of a yellow sun gracing Biafra's map.
Her hair is the ruffled threads of an old mopstick. Her eyes, the blazing red of burning embers, is almost gorging out of her jutting cheekbones. Yours are banging hard at their sockets, willing them to break open, so they can scurry back in time to peek at this shadow's former self feeding hungry souls at the make-shift refugee camp in the intensity of the war.
What's the hesitation for? Move. Meet her slow steps with your hurried steps. Draw her into the warmest of embraces. Oh! It happens again; she's morphed into a puff of air and melted into nothingness. Baby is at the entrance now, her irises are two black question marks. Her lips part to voice the question. Tell her, Olanna. Tell her that you're not mad; that Kainene lives and begs to be found. The search must continue.