The year was 2014. Till today, I don’t know why she died. We were told it was HIV but we shared everything and I don’t have HIV. She cut her fingers sometimes when she cooked and we shared blades. Even that guy down the street whom she used to date is still alive and well. So you see the reason why I don’t believe that HIV story. I miss my sister every day, mostly when I reminisce on our late-night conversations about her getting married. We would talk about me giving the speech and trying as much as possible to leave out embarrassing details. Afterwards, we would take turns playing the snake game on her Nokia torchlight phone. Anyone who had the lower score was slapped hard on the palms with her bathroom slippers.

She was light-skinned with a slightly big nose and had the body of a model that still needed a lot of work. Oh she was excellent in the kitchen. Even my mum still talks about her cooking nine years later. Her iconic yam and palm oil dish was to die for. I still remember my twelve-year-old self after school, uniform still on as I would watch her fill the tray with pieces of sweet hot yam. The sauce of palm oil, peppers and onions did magic to my taste buds as I tried to keep the hot deliciousness in my mouth. I miss her random calls to her room to cross-check a spelling or two for her. She wasn’t the most learned but she tried her best.

I also remember that time when she applied for a job and wrote on the envelope “From the manager” instead of “To the manager”. And that time when some cultist guys beat her up at work and slammed her head into a freezer because she had upset one of their members a few days before. There were mornings when she would disappear and come back hours later with so many clothes from the market for us. It was always the cutest thing.

Now whenever I look into the mirror and see the acne scars on my face, I’m reminded of her. How she would sit me down for a time, popping every pimple she could find on my face. I’m glad I still have something to remember her for, at least.

The day I was told she died, I didn’t cry. It was on my junior sister’s birthday. She had suffered enough. She needed to rest. Her death and burial had been very lowkey, so the day that broke my heart was a few weeks later when her friend came to see her with her newborn baby, and my dad told her that she died a while ago. I watched her cry like a baby but tears still didn’t leave my eyes. 

Today I think about what life would have been like with her - maybe she would have been married with a child or two, or she would have had her own business and I would have had someone to call and ask for money when sapa came knocking on my door. Maybe she would have moved into the new house with us or moved to a new city so I could come visit her. Maybe she would have been in my bed, laying next to me while we talked for hours and laughed so hard it hurt. Maybe I would have seen her face turn red after I made a funny joke and seen tears run down her cheeks. Just maybe, but I trust she’s in a better place now.