Ibadan, 2006 Dayo was fourteen when he asked his mother why she stayed. He asked badly. That mattered to him later. He had imagined, in the years since, a gentler version of himself entering the kitchen and taking her hand. In reality he was fourteen, frightened, humiliated by the fear and furious at the only person he believed he could safely blame. It was Sunday afternoon. His father had left for a meeting. The house felt tired after the previous night. A cupboard door in the sitting room hung crooked. Nobody had explained it. Nobody needed to. His mother stood at the kitchen counter peeling yam. “Mummy.” “Hmm?” “Why are you still here?” The knife stopped. “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean.” “Dayo.” “Why don't you leave?” She placed the knife carefully on the board. “Go and finish your homework.” “I've finished.” “Then read.” “Why don't you leave?” She turned. At forty-two, Mama Afolabi was still beautiful in the way that irritated people who wanted suffering to leave visible proof. Her face looked tired, but not ruined. Her hair was braided back. There was a small burn mark on one wrist from cooking. “Who have you been talking to?”
“Nobody.” “Then don't ask me adult questions you don't understand.” “I understand enough.” “No, you don't.” “He makes everybody miserable.” “Lower your voice.” “He isn't here.” “Lower it anyway.” The instruction made him angrier. “You see? Even when he's not here.” His mother's face tightened. Dayo should have stopped. He did not. “Why do you stay? Is it money? Is it because people will talk? What?” She picked up the knife, then put it down again. “Where would I go?” Dayo stared at her. “That is not an answer.” “It is the answer I have.” The sentence stunned him more than shouting would have. “You have sisters.” “Yes.” “You have friends.” “Yes.” “You have a job.” “Yes.” “So where would I go is not true.” Her eyes closed briefly. When she turned again, there was anger in them. “You think leaving a marriage is packing one bag and entering a bus?” “Yes.”
The answer came because he was fourteen. Something like pain crossed her face. “Of course you do.” “Then explain it.” “I don't owe my child an explanation of my marriage.” “I live in your marriage.” The words landed. Neither moved. Dayo would remember the exact way his mother's hand went to the edge of the counter. He would understand much later that he had said the truest thing available to him and the cruelest. She looked down. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. “You are right about one thing.” He waited. “You should not have to live inside it.” His anger faltered. She washed her hands slowly, dried them on a cloth, then came to stand in front of him. “Listen to me. You will finish school. You will go wherever you need to go. You will make a life that is not this house.” “Mummy—” “No. Listen.” Her voice broke once. “Do not stay here because of me.” “I didn't say I was going anywhere.” “I know my son.” The room seemed suddenly smaller. She touched his cheek. “Go. When it is time, go. Make a life.” The next question came out smaller. “What about you?” His mother smiled, and the sadness of it stayed with him longer than the answer. “I will find my own way.” He looked toward the sitting room with its crooked cupboard door. “What if he gets worse?”
Her hand dropped from his face. “That is not yours to solve.” “But what if—” “Dayo.” She waited until he met her eyes. “I am your mother. You are not my husband, my protector or my escape plan. You are fourteen.” The words embarrassed him because some part of him had believed usefulness might save her. She seemed to see that too. “You can love me and still go,” she said. His mother picked up the knife again and returned to the yam. The conversation was apparently over, but Dayo stayed by the refrigerator. “Mummy?” “Hmm?” “Do you regret marrying him?” Her hand paused. “I regret some things that happened in my marriage,” she said. “That is not the same question.” He wanted a cleaner answer. She did not give him one. Years later, he would understand that adults could tell the truth and still refuse simplicity. At fourteen, he did not believe her. He thought love meant staying close enough to hear the gate. At twenty, he left anyway.