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DEAD ON ARRIVAL

EPISODE SEVEN

THE GOODBYE THAT LINGERED

Morning arrived softly, as if it knew the weight it carried.

Ejiro woke before dawn, her suitcase already packed, her room stripped of anything that might tempt her to stay. The walls felt bare without her laughter echoing against them. Every step she took toward the sitting room felt heavier than the last.

Her mother was already awake in her wheelchair, staring out the window.

They looked at each other for a long time.

No words came first.

Ejiro knelt slowly, resting her head against her mother’s knees, the same place she had cried the day her father died.

“Mama,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “I don’t want to leave you like this.”

Her mother’s hand moved to her hair, fingers gentle, familiar.

“You are not leaving me,” she said softly. “You are moving forward. That is different.”

Tears slipped down Ejiro’s face.

“Who will help you? Who will sit with you when it hurts? Who will—”

“I will be lonely,” her mother said honestly. “I won’t lie to you.”

Ejiro looked up sharply.

“But I will also be happy,” she continued. “Because my children are choosing life. Because you are refusing to be buried with your father.”

She smiled, though her eyes were wet.

“Every step you take forward keeps me alive.”

Ejiro hugged her tightly, careful of the chair, careful of the fragile strength her mother now carried. They stayed like that until the sun climbed higher.

When it was time, Ejiro stood.

She kissed her mother’s forehead.

“I’ll call every day.”

“I know.”

“I’ll come back for holidays.”

“I know.”

“I’ll make you proud.”

Her mother nodded. “You already have.”

When the car finally pulled away, the house felt suddenly hollow.

Silence settled in like an unwanted guest.

The mother sat alone, staring at the empty doorway, the echo of footsteps still ringing in her ears. Loneliness crept in slowly, wrapping itself around her chest.

But beneath it lived something stronger.

Hope.

She imagined Ejoke in uniform. Ejiro in a foreign classroom. Futures unfolding far beyond bloodstained roads.

Later that afternoon, another presence entered the house.

Oyoyo.

Her sister did not knock loudly. She simply walked in, sleeves rolled, eyes already assessing what needed to be done.

“I’m here,” she said.

From that day, Oyoyo became her legs, her strength, her companion. She pushed the wheelchair through corridors and into sunlight. She cooked, cleaned, and talked endlessly to fill the quiet.

And when the nights became too long, she stayed awake.

The house breathed again.

EPISODE EIGHT

STEEL AND MEMORY

Ejiro learned quickly that distance did not erase memory.

No matter how busy her days became, her father’s death followed her into lecture halls and quiet dorm rooms. Sometimes, in the middle of studying, her hands would shake. Sometimes, she would hear shouting that wasn’t there.

She forced herself forward anyway.

She buried herself in books, assignments, and deadlines. She learned to smile in public and cry only at night. Healing did not come easily, but she did not stop trying.

Back home, Ejoke was learning a different kind of survival.

Military training broke boys and rebuilt men.

The days were brutal. The nights worse.

They ran until their lungs burned. Crawled through mud and thorns. Stood under rain holding rifles heavier than fear. Mistakes were punished. Weakness was exposed.

More than once, Ejoke wanted to quit.

Each time, his father’s final moments returned.

The shouting.
The gunfire.
The helplessness.

He clenched his fists and pushed on.

“I won’t run,” he told himself. “Not again.”

His instructors noticed him early. His discipline. His focus. His refusal to fall behind. Academically, he excelled. Tactically, he adapted fast. Physically, he endured.

He trained harder than anyone.

When others slept, he studied. When others complained, he practiced.

By the time graduation approached, his name stood at the top.

Best in weapons handling.
Best in field tactics.
Best academically.

Not because he wanted medals.

But because he wanted justice.

DEAD ON ARRIVAL

EPISODE FOUR

BETWEEN BREATHS AND BONES

Morning crept into the hospital without warmth.

The sun rose somewhere beyond the concrete walls, but its light did not reach the corridors where survivors lay stacked in pain and silence. The hospital smelled of antiseptic, smoke, and blood—a mixture that clung to the air and refused to leave.

She lay in the intensive care unit, motionless.

Machines surrounded her bed like silent guards. A ventilator breathed for her in slow, mechanical rhythm. A monitor traced thin green lines across a black screen, each rise and fall proof that her heart still worked, even if the rest of her seemed uncertain.

The doctors spoke in low voices.

“Severe spinal trauma.”
“No response to stimuli.”
“Possible permanent damage.”

Words were written. Files were signed. Decisions were made around her body as if she were not there, as if she could not hear them.

But somewhere deep inside her, something listened.

Her mind drifted through broken images—
a kitchen table,
steam rising from tea,
Ejoke’s voice calling her,
Ejiro’s arms wrapped tight around her waist.

Then fire.

Gunshots.

The sound of her husband falling.

She tried to scream.

Nothing came.

Her fingers did not move. Her legs were gone from her awareness, like they had never existed. Panic rose, thick and suffocating, but her body did not react. She was trapped inside herself, awake but buried.

A tear slid from the corner of her eye.

Hours later, a nurse noticed.

“She’s crying,” the woman said softly, leaning closer. “Doctor… I think she’s conscious.”

The doctor stepped forward, shining a light gently into her eyes.

“Madam,” he said clearly. “If you can hear me, blink.”

Nothing.

“If you understand me… blink once.”

Time stretched.

Then—barely—her eyelids trembled.

Once.

The room went still.

“She’s in there,” the nurse whispered.

Hope did not rush in loudly. It arrived carefully, afraid to break what little remained.

---

Across town, Ejoke sat on the floor of a crowded neighbor’s house.

He had not slept.

Ejiro leaned against him, finally exhausted, her breathing shallow but steady. Around them, survivors spoke in hushed tones, counting the dead, listing names, arguing about who was to blame.

Ejoke heard none of it.

His hands were clenched so tightly his nails had drawn blood. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father fall. Every time he opened them, he expected to see his mother walk through the door.

She did not.

A man entered quietly and spoke to the adults first. Heads turned. Murmurs spread.

Then the man knelt in front of Ejoke.

“Your mother is alive,” he said.

Ejoke’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

“Where?” he asked.

“She’s in the general hospital. Badly injured.”

Ejiro stirred. “Mama?”

Ejoke nodded slowly. Relief and fear collided inside him, leaving him dizzy.

“Can we see her?” Ejiro asked.

The man hesitated.

“Not yet.”

The word felt heavier than no.

---

That night, in the hospital, she drifted again.

Pain pulsed through her spine like fire trapped under skin. Even breathing hurt now, even with the machines helping. Voices came and went, fading in and out like waves.

She heard her children crying.

She tried to reach them.

Her hand twitched.

Just slightly.

Enough for the nurse to gasp.

“She moved,” the nurse said urgently. “Her hand moved.”

The doctor returned quickly, testing reflexes, watching carefully.

“Madam,” he said, leaning close. “You’re safe. Your children are alive.”

Her heart rate spiked.

Tears flowed freely now, unchecked.

Alive.

The word wrapped around her like a fragile promise.

“You were very brave,” the doctor continued. “But your injuries are serious. We don’t yet know if you’ll walk again.”

She did not care.

Not yet.

All that mattered was that her children still breathed.

Her husband did not.

The truth pressed down on her chest, heavier than any wound. A silent scream tore through her mind, shaking something loose inside her.

Her fingers curled weakly.

Grief settled into her bones.

Outside, night swallowed the ruined village.

Ash still coated the ground. Fires smoldered quietly. Nothing had been rebuilt. Nothing had been buried properly.

And inside a hospital bed, a woman lay suspended between survival and loss—alive, but altered; breathing, but broken.

Her story had not ended.

It had only hardened.

Somewhere, far from the machines and bandages, fate waited patiently.

And when she finally opened her eyes fully, the world would learn what it had created in the ashes of that morning.

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EPISODE FIVE — COMING SOON

DEADBON ARRIVAL
BY Solomon M. U Solomon Mamuzo Umuwe

EPISODE THREE

ASHES AFTER DAWN

The bandits left the town the same way they had come—fast, loud, and without regret.

Their trucks roared down the ruined road, tires crushing debris and bodies alike, engines coughing smoke into an already darkened sky. No one chased them. No one could. The village they abandoned behind them no longer had the strength.

Smoke hung everywhere, thick and choking. Flames still licked at collapsed roofs, crawling through wooden frames and dried mats. The air smelled of burning flesh, fuel, and grief. What had been a living place only hours before now looked like the remains of a war forgotten by the world.

Ejoke stood in the open road, holding his father’s hunting gun.

His hands were tight around the stock, knuckles white, finger resting just beside the trigger. The weapon felt warm, almost alive, as if it still carried the echo of the chaos that had passed through his hands moments earlier. Around him lay bodies—neighbors, men he knew by name, people who had shared meals and laughter only days ago.

“Ejoke…”

Ejiro’s voice came from behind him, shaking.

He did not turn at first. His eyes were fixed down the road where the bandits had disappeared, his chest rising and falling too fast. The gun trembled slightly in his grip.

“Ejoke, please,” she said again, stepping closer. “Drop it.”

He finally looked at her.

She was barefoot, her dress torn and blackened with soot. Her face was streaked with tears and ash, her eyes wide with fear—not just of what had happened, but of what she saw in her brother now.

“Give it to me,” she whispered. “Please.”

“They killed him,” Ejoke said quietly.

Ejiro followed his gaze to where their father lay on the ground, unmoving, blood dried dark against his clothes. Her breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from screaming.

“I know,” she sobbed. “I know. But this—” she pointed at the gun, her hand shaking “—this will only take you too.”

His grip tightened.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the weight of the gun and the fire burning behind his eyes. He imagined chasing the bandits. Imagined pulling the trigger. Imagined the sound it would make.

Then Ejiro stepped in front of him.

“I already lost Papa,” she said, her voice breaking completely. “I can’t lose you too.”

Something in her words cut through him.

Slowly, painfully, Ejoke lowered the gun. His arms felt suddenly weak, as if the strength holding him upright had drained away. He let the weapon fall to the dirt. It landed with a dull thud, harmless and empty.

Ejiro rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him. This time, he did not push her away. He stood there, stiff and silent, as the fires crackled around them.

Sirens wailed again in the distance.

More police trucks and government vehicles arrived, skidding to a halt amid smoke and debris. Officers poured out, weapons raised, shouting orders that came far too late. Medics followed, rushing toward the wounded, pulling survivors from the ruins.

Anger exploded almost immediately.

“You ran!” a man shouted, grabbing at an officer’s vest.
“You left us!” a woman screamed, pointing toward the burned homes.
“What kind of government is this?”

The officers tried to push people back, tried to explain, but no one wanted explanations. Cries and curses filled the air, mixing with sobs and coughing.

Ejoke barely noticed.

His eyes searched the chaos desperately, his heart pounding.

“Mama?” he called out.

No answer.

He scanned the road, the burning houses, the clusters of people being pulled toward ambulances. Stretchers moved past him, bodies strapped down, some covered, some not. Medics shouted numbers and injuries.

He did not see her.

He did not see her lying broken by the roadside.
He did not see her lifted onto a stretcher.
He did not see the ambulance doors close.

By the time he reached the place where she had fallen, she was already gone.

Only scorched earth and blood remained.

“Ejoke,” Ejiro whispered, tugging his sleeve. “We have to move.”

Neighbors gathered around them, familiar faces hollowed by shock. One man gently pulled the children back as soldiers lifted their father’s body onto a vehicle.

“Where are you taking him?” Ejiro asked, her voice barely audible.

“To the mortuary,” the man replied softly.

The word landed hard.

Ejiro broke down completely then, crying into Ejoke’s chest. He held her, staring blankly ahead as the vehicle drove away with their father inside it. No prayers were said. There was no time.

As the authorities worked through the ruins, anger continued to boil. People shouted at government officials, accusing them of cowardice, of arriving late, of retreating when the village had needed them most.

No one defended them.

As evening crept closer, neighbors led Ejoke and Ejiro away from the road, away from the bodies and fire. Someone wrapped a cloth around Ejiro’s shoulders. Someone pressed water into Ejoke’s hands.

“Your mother will be found,” a woman said gently, though her eyes were unsure. “She is strong.”

Ejoke nodded, but said nothing.

He did not know she was already fighting for her life in a hospital miles away.
He did not know she lay silent, unresponsive, while doctors worked over her broken body.
He did not know how close she was to slipping beyond reach.

As night settled over the ruined village, Ejoke sat in silence, his sister beside him, the weight of the day pressing down on his chest.

The gun was gone.
His father was gone.
His mother was missing.

And somewhere inside him, something hardened quietly, waiting.

The ashes were still warm.

Inside the Hospital

The ambulance doors burst open before the vehicle fully stopped.

Hands reached in at once—urgent, practiced—lifting her broken body onto a stretcher and rushing her through corridors already crowded with the wounded. Her clothes were stiff with dried blood and ash. Her face was gray beneath the soot, lips parted slightly, breath shallow and uneven. One leg lay at an unnatural angle, unmoving. Her spine had taken the worst of it.

“Female. Mid-thirties,” a paramedic shouted as they ran. “Jumped from a moving vehicle. Possible spinal fracture. Severe trauma.”

The stretcher wheels rattled violently against the hospital floor as they pushed her into the emergency room. Lights above flashed past her open eyes, white and harsh, but she did not react. She did not blink. She did not speak.

Doctors surrounded her immediately.

“Pulse is weak.”
“Blood pressure dropping.”
“She’s crashing.”

Scissors cut through what remained of her clothes. Gloved hands pressed hard against her chest. Tubes were forced into her mouth, oxygen flooding her lungs. Machines were connected, their sharp beeping filling the room like a countdown.

Her body bore the story of what she had endured—burns along her arms, deep bruising across her ribs, blood seeping slowly from wounds that no longer bled fast enough to scream danger. Her back was rigid, wrong, as if something essential had snapped and refused to return to place.

“Stay with us,” a doctor said, leaning close to her face. “Madam, stay with us.”

Her eyes stared past him.

They were open, but empty—fixed on something far away, something no one else in the room could see. Not the ceiling. Not the lights. Somewhere beyond the hospital walls. Somewhere before the gunshots. Somewhere before the fire.

Her heart faltered.

The monitor screamed.

“Cardiac arrest!”

The room exploded into motion.

“Start CPR!”
“Charge to two hundred!”
“Clear!”

Her body je**ed violently as electricity tore through her. Once. Twice. Her head rolled slightly to the side, dark hair clinging to her face. Still, she made no sound.

Hands pressed rhythmically against her chest, again and again, trying to force life back into a body that seemed already half gone. Sweat dripped from foreheads. Commands were barked sharply. No one slowed down.

Between compressions, her chest rose mechanically, pushed by air not her own. She lay utterly still beneath it all—silent, broken, refusing to respond.

“Come on,” someone muttered under their breath. “Come back.”

The monitor flickered.

A faint rhythm returned.

“Pulse!” a nurse called out, relief edged with disbelief.

They worked quickly now, stabilizing her, fighting to keep that fragile line steady. Fluids rushed into her veins. Bandages were tightened. A neck brace was secured carefully, reverently, as if she were already something fragile beyond repair.

Still, she did not speak.

Not a cry.
Not a word.
Not even a flicker of recognition.

Her face remained calm in a way that felt wrong—too still for someone pulled back from death. Tears slid silently from the corners of her eyes, disappearing into her hair, unnoticed by everyone but the ceiling she continued to stare at.

Outside the room, the hospital buzzed with noise and grief.

Inside, she lay suspended between breaths, between worlds—alive, but shattered; saved, but unresponsive; her body present, her spirit somewhere far away in the ashes of the morning she could not escape.

And as the doctors stepped back at last, exhausted, one truth settled heavily in the room:

She had survived.

But no one yet knew what part of her had been lost.

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