Everyone in the compound knew Titi's mother as "Mama Titi."
Not because they cared for her — but because no one knew her actual name.
She wasn't the type to sit outside plaiting hair or trading gossip over fried plantain. She didn't come out during sanitation Saturdays or wave when the landlord passed by. If she did speak, it was only to scold Titi with a quiet intensity that chilled you more than a scream ever could.
But the strangest thing? She never cried. Not when her husband left in the middle of the night with his box and Bible. Not when NEPA cut the light and the freezer spoiled the meat. Not even when Titi fell terribly sick and was rushed to the hospital.
She simply carried on — eyes dry, lips pursed, face unreadable.
So when the ambulance came that Friday afternoon and the sirens silenced the neighborhood, we all gathered by the gate, craning our necks, whispering guesses.
The nurse came out shaking her head.
Titi didn't make it.
Still, Mama Titi did not cry.
She walked out behind the nurse, her white scarf tight around her head. She nodded once at the compound, as if thanking us for nothing in particular, then turned and walked back into her apartment. Alone.
That night, the compound was quiet. Too quiet. Even the landlord's dog stopped barking.
But I stayed up. I lived directly above her. And sometime around 2 a.m., I heard it. Faint at first — like a kettle just starting to hiss. Then louder.
It wasn't a wail. Not a sob. Not even weeping.
It was the kind of sound you make when your body remembers pain before your mind allows it.
A deep, guttural groan. As if grief had taken up residence in her chest and was clawing its way out. Slowly. Violently.
She cried that night.
But only once.
By morning, the scarf was back on, the dishes were washed, and she was sweeping her front steps like nothing happened. As if we'd all imagined the sound.
But we hadn't.
That was the night Mama Titi stopped being a mystery to me.
Because I finally understood what it meant to mourn in silence.
And what it cost.