His mother was at the front door before he knocked. Dayo stopped halfway across the compound. For years he had pictured her in the kitchen of his childhood, forty-something forever, one hand on a counter. The woman standing in the doorway was fifty-eight and unmistakably the same person. Her hair was shorter now, a neat natural twist-out threaded with grey. She wore a loose rust-coloured dress and flat slippers. There were fine lines around her mouth Dayo did not remember earning. For a second, neither moved. Then Mama Afolabi said, “Dayo.” His name broke in the middle. He crossed the remaining distance. She hugged him first. Dayo had prepared for questions, tears, accusation, perhaps theatrical thanksgiving. He had not prepared for her body. Smaller than he remembered. Warm. Real. He put his arms around her and smelled YSL Babycat. Vanilla, pepper, leather, smoke. The perfume he had sent her two years earlier after she complained that the one she used was discontinued. He had ordered it online, had it delivered, and never smelled it on her skin. Now the fragrance was tangled with starch, cooking spices and the specific scent of his mother's shoulder. Something inside him gave way. He pulled back before it became visible. She held his face between both hands.
“You've become thin.” Dayo laughed helplessly. “Mummy, that is not true.” “It is true.” “I've gained six kilos since you last saw me.” “Where?” He laughed again. The sound surprised him. His mother smiled, and suddenly he could see her at forty-two. Then she looked over his shoulder at the gate. “You had trouble?” “It still sticks.” “I have told your father we should change it.” Dayo's smile vanished almost imperceptibly. His mother saw. “He is inside,” she said. “I know.” “You can sit first.” “No.” The answer came quickly. If he sat somewhere else first, he might not enter the sitting room at all. His mother nodded. She stepped aside. Dayo crossed the threshold. The house did not attack him. That was his first thought. No rush of music. No cinematic collapse. No ghost-child waiting at the foot of the stairs. Just tile. A console table that was new.
The old mirror still on the wall. A framed photograph of his parents at somebody's wedding. He took off his shoes automatically. His mother looked down. “You don't have to.” He stared at his socks. They had never worn outside shoes upstairs. “I know.” He left the shoes by the door anyway. Then he heard the television. News. Male voices discussing politics. His father had always watched news as though the country might improve if he stared hard enough. Dayo's body knew the route before his mind approved it. Three steps. Turn. Sitting room. The expensive brown sofa was gone. In its place was a dark-green set with high backs. The curtains were cream now. The broken lamp had been replaced years ago. The cabinet door from 2006 was straight. Baba Afolabi sat in an armchair beside the window. Dayo stopped. His father looked smaller. Not weak. Recalibrated. The broad shoulders of Dayo's childhood had narrowed. His hair was almost completely grey. Reading glasses sat low on his nose. One hand rested on a walking stick leaned against the chair.
Dayo had known about the hip. Knowing was not seeing. Baba Afolabi looked at him. The television continued speaking. For one long second, his father's face held nothing Dayo could name. Then he removed his glasses. “Dayo.” “Good morning, sir.” The sir came from somewhere ancient. His father glanced at the bag in his hand. “You came.” “Yes.” A pause. “How was the road?” Dayo almost laughed. Eleven years and the road. “Fine.” “Traffic?” “Not too bad.” His father nodded. Mama Afolabi stood behind Dayo, silent. Baba Afolabi reached for the remote and lowered the television volume. “You are looking well.” “Thank you.” “Work?” “Fine.” Another pause. His father looked toward the other sofa.
“Sit.” Dayo sat. His bag remained upright between his shoes. For several minutes, nobody spoke except the television. Dayo's father put his glasses back on. Dayo watched the news. His mother disappeared into the kitchen. The room smelled of furniture polish, Babycat and something faintly medicinal. No whisky. Dayo hated himself for noticing. After perhaps five minutes, his father said, without looking at him, “Your mother says the project in Victoria Island is big.” Dayo's eyes moved to him. “She told you?” “She tells me things.” Of course she did. The information unsettled him. “Yes. It's a large project.” “You are managing it?” “One part.” His father nodded. “Good.” That was all. Good. Dayo's throat tightened unexpectedly. He looked back at the television. The word reached across decades and found the rug. You will.
He sat there for twenty minutes beside the man he had spent eleven years refusing to become. Nothing happened. That was almost unbearable.