Dayo laughed. It was not because anything was funny. He stood in Amaka's living room, hands on his hips, and let out one short disbelieving laugh. “Go to Ibadan.” “Yes.” “That's your answer.” “No. That's my suggestion.” “To what?” “To the fact that a house you haven't entered in eleven years is currently sitting between us.” His eyes dropped to the untouched coffee. Amaka folded her arms. “Dayo.” “I heard you.” “Then why are you acting like I told you to walk to Ghana?” “Because you don't know what you're asking.” “Then tell me.” “I just spent two hours telling you.” “You spent two hours telling me why you left. You haven't told me why going back is impossible.” “It isn't impossible.” “Good.” “Don't do that.” “What?” “Reduce it to logistics.” Amaka stared at him for a moment.
Then she laughed softly, without humour. “That's interesting coming from you.” He winced. “Fine. Cheap point.” “Accurate point.” He picked up the untouched coffee he had brought and carried it to the kitchen, though neither of them wanted it. He needed movement. Amaka followed. “I don't think one trip is going to fix you,” she said. He turned sharply. “I don't need fixing.” “Then stop behaving like I said you did.” “You literally just—” “I said one trip will not fix you because people are not appliances. I am saying you do not know what that house is now. You only know what it was when you left.” Dayo set the cup down harder than necessary. “You think I don't know what happened in that house?” “I think you know exactly what happened in the parts you remember.” “And what does that mean?” “It means your father is sixty-one now, not forty. Your mother is fifty-eight, not thirty- nine. You are thirty-one, not seventeen. Maybe nothing is different. Maybe everything is. But you don't know.” His jaw tightened. “I speak to my mother every week.” “For seven minutes.” He met her eyes. She did not apologize. Dayo picked up his keys from the counter. “I'm going.” Amaka's face changed. “Dayo.”
“What?” “Don't turn this into me rejecting you.” He stopped. “I didn't say that.” “You don't have to. You're already making the face.” “What face?” “The one that says: fine, if you don't want me here, I'll go.” The distinction stopped him. “You just told me to go to Ibadan.” “I told you to go home. I did not tell you to leave me.” The words hit harder than he expected. Amaka came closer. “I am angry with you,” she said. “Very. I don't trust you the way I did two weeks ago. That is true.” His expression tightened. “But I'm still here. Stop making me prove it every time something gets hard.” Dayo looked down at the keys in his hand. “What if I go and nothing changes?” “Then nothing changes.” “What if it makes it worse?” “Then at least the thing hurting us will be something real, not something you've been rehearsing alone for eleven years.” He breathed out. “And the baby?” “What about the baby?” “What are we doing?” Amaka's hand moved to her stomach again. “I don't know yet.” Fear shot through him.
“You don't know if you're keeping it?” Her eyes sharpened. “I said I don't know what we are doing. Do not make me say things I didn't say.” He swallowed. “Sorry.” “I have an appointment in two weeks. We have time to talk. But I am not making a life decision while half of you is still in that house.” Dayo leaned back against the counter. The morning light was stronger now. His phone was in his pocket. Ibadan was less than two hours away in good traffic and more than a decade away in every other sense. “When?” Amaka asked. He met her eyes. “If I go.” “When?” He nearly said he needed to check work. Nearly asked about project schedules, meetings, site inspections. Then he understood that if he opened his calendar, he would find a reason not to go for another month. “Tomorrow.” Amaka nodded. Something in him panicked at the finality of her acceptance. He pulled out his phone before he could reconsider and opened a transport app. Lagos to Ibadan. Friday. 8:00 a.m. He chose a seat by the window. His thumb hovered over Pay.
Amaka said nothing. Dayo pressed it. The confirmation appeared. For a moment he felt ridiculous. It was only a bus ticket. Then his body began shaking. Not visibly at first. Just his fingers. He put the phone down. Amaka saw. This time when she stepped closer, he let her. She rested her forehead against his chest. He did not put his arms around her immediately. Then he did. Not tightly. Not as an answer. Just enough to admit that he was still in the room.