THE ONE LEFT BEHIND

The street noticed my absence before anyone else did.

It always does.

My brother returned to our places alone. He stood where I should have been. He waited longer than usual. He searched with a patience that only comes from certainty—the certainty that someone you love has to be nearby.

He didn’t know about ropes or compounds or sharpened intentions.

He only knew that I hadn’t come back.

Days passed. Then weeks.

December came to the street too, just without lights or music. Food scraps became more plentiful for a while. The city celebrated loudly, generously, forgetting nothing and no one except what it was convenient to forget.

I like to believe my brother survived the season.

That he ate enough.
That he slept without fear.
That he eventually stopped listening for my footsteps in the noise.

But sometimes, when the harmattan wind cuts through the night and the city smells faintly of smoke and spice, I imagine him pausing.

Just once.

Lifting his head.

Feeling something he can’t name.

That will be me.

Not the meat they shared.
Not the celebration they praised.
Not the Christmas they remember fondly.

Me—the one who walked beside him.
The one who pulled when danger came.
The one who never left willingly.

If you laughed at the reveal, that’s okay.
If you felt uneasy, that’s better.

Just remember this, the next time December smells rich and familiar:

Somewhere, something loved the street.
And the street loved it back—
Even if only briefly.