Dayo almost missed the bus on purpose. At 7:34 Friday morning, he stood in his kitchen fully dressed, travel bag by the door, and considered sending the driver a message that work had come up. It would have been believable. Work always came up. His phone buzzed. Amaka. Are you on your way? The message sat on the screen longer than it should have. Then typed: Leaving now. The lie forced the truth. He picked up the bag. At the terminal, the driver complained about luggage weight, passengers complained about departure time and a woman in front of Dayo spent five minutes arguing that her hand luggage should not count as luggage because it was in her hand. The ordinariness of it offended him. He felt as though the universe should acknowledge what he was doing. Instead a conductor shouted, “Ibadan! Everybody going Ibadan, please enter!” Dayo entered. Seat 9A. Window. He placed his bag beneath the seat and sat. The man beside him was in his fifties, neatly dressed in a pale-blue kaftan, reading messages on his phone. He nodded once at Dayo. “Morning.” “Morning, sir.”
The bus pulled out twelve minutes late. Lagos receded in the practical way cities do. Flyovers. Warehouses. Fuel stations. The stubborn crawl toward the expressway. Dayo watched without really seeing. He had driven to Ibadan many times for work. That was the absurdity. He had inspected sites at Oluyole. Attended meetings near Bodija. Once spent three nights at a hotel less than fifteen kilometres from his parents' house. He had not gone there. Ibadan itself was not forbidden. Only one gate. As the bus gathered speed, the man beside him shifted and a fragrance moved through the air. Dayo turned his head. Rose first, but not soft. Something mineral. Frankincense. Amber warmth underneath. The scent was unfamiliar and strangely intimate. He tried not to stare. The man noticed anyway. “Everything okay?” “Yes, sir. Sorry.” Dayo hesitated. “Your perfume.” The man smiled. “Ah.” “What is it?” “Guidance. Amouage.” Dayo repeated the word silently. Guidance. The name was almost too obvious. “Nice,” he said. “My daughter bought it for me. Expensive child.” Dayo smiled.
The man returned to his phone. But the scent remained. It did something Gris Charnel had never done. Gris Charnel had always felt private to Dayo—dry, self-contained, elegant without asking anyone to come closer. Guidance seemed to move outward. It smelled, absurdly, like an embrace that had arrived late and decided late was still worth arriving. Dayo turned toward the window. He hated the thought on sight. The bus passed the long stretches where Lagos thinned and road took over. His phone showed a message from his mother. Good morning my son. Hope work is fine. He had not told her he was coming. He had planned to. Then decided he wanted the option to turn around. At 9:11, he typed: Morning Mummy. Are you home today? Her reply came almost immediately. Yes. Why? He watched the cursor blink. I'm coming to Ibadan. Three dots. Gone. Three dots again. Then his phone rang. He let it ring once before answering. “Hello?” “Dayo.”
His mother's voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes.” “You are coming here?” “Yes.” “Here here?” He almost laughed. “Yes, Mummy. The house.” Silence. Then, “Today?” “I'm already on the road.” Another silence. He could hear movement on her end. “Mummy?” “I am here.” “Is he there?” He did not say Daddy. His mother noticed. She always did. “Yes.” Dayo's stomach tightened. “Should I—” “No.” Her answer came quickly. “Come.” He looked out the window. “You don't need to prepare anything.” “I didn't say I was preparing anything.” He smiled faintly. “Okay.” “What time?” “Maybe ten-thirty. Eleven.”
“I will be here.” The call ended. The man beside him had fallen asleep. Guidance still hovered faintly between them. Dayo opened his chat with Amaka. On the bus. She replied: Okay. He stared at the word. Then another message appeared. “You do not have to prove anything to me. Just go and see what is there.” He put the phone away. By the time the first familiar Ibadan landmarks appeared, his palms were wet. The city seemed unchanged and completely rearranged. Brown roofs spread over hills. Roads he remembered had widened. Shops had become banks, then pharmacies, then something else. A church where a mechanic workshop used to be. A supermarket on land he remembered as empty. He got down at the terminal and ordered a ride. The driver asked for the address. Dayo gave it. Hearing the street name aloud felt more intimate than saying his father's name. Twenty-three minutes later, the car turned into the neighbourhood. Dayo's heartbeat became painful. There was Taiwo's old street. The pharmacy his mother used. A wall repainted blue. A mango tree gone. Then the car stopped. “Sir, this is it.”
The gate filled the window. The gate had been painted dark grey. Everything else was smaller. He paid, stepped out and stood on the pavement with his bag. The car drove away. He was alone. For several seconds, he did nothing. Then he put one hand on the gate and pushed. It stuck. Dayo closed his eyes. Of course it did. He pulled once. Nothing. Twice. The gate opened.