Dayo and his father watched the news together for twenty minutes. That became the first fact he told Amaka later because it was easier than explaining what twenty minutes had done to him. In the sitting room, a senator denied saying something everyone had video evidence of him saying. The anchor replayed the clip. Baba Afolabi made a dismissive sound. “They think people don't remember anything.” Dayo almost said, Some people depend on it. He kept the sentence in his mouth. His mother returned with a tray. “Dayo, I made rice. Or do you want yam?” “Mummy, anything is fine.” “Anything is not food.” His father said, “Give him rice.” Dayo looked at him. Baba Afolabi was still watching television. “He always preferred yam,” his mother said. “He used to.” “I'm sitting here,” Dayo said. His mother smiled. “Then answer.” “Rice is fine.” She left again. The exchange should have been harmless. Instead Dayo found himself annoyed that his father remembered a childhood preference incorrectly. Eleven years of silence had made him greedy for impossible precision. You do not get to remember me wrong, he thought. You missed too much.
His father's hand moved toward the walking stick. Dayo watched him stand. The movement was slow and carefully managed. He shifted weight onto his left leg, braced with the stick and pushed himself upright. Dayo stood automatically. “I can get it.” Baba Afolabi looked at him. “Get what?” “You're standing.” “Yes.” The old irritation in the voice made something electric move through Dayo. His shoulders tightened. Then his father gestured toward the hallway. “I am going to the toilet.” Dayo sat back down. “Right.” Baba Afolabi took two steps, then stopped. “You think I am dying?” Dayo looked at him. “I didn't say that.” “You stood like emergency services.” Against his will, Dayo laughed. His father almost smiled. Almost. Then he walked away. Dayo remained seated with the strange aftertaste of amusement. His mother came in carrying rice, stew and fried plantain. “You see his hip now,” she said quietly. “He told me about the surgery.” “He didn't tell you properly.”
“What does properly mean?” “It was difficult.” Dayo took the plate. “Why didn't you call me?” His mother's eyes lifted. There it was. A question with eleven years inside it. “We did.” Dayo frowned. “When?” “Your father called you the week before.” Dayo remembered. His birthday. Seven minutes. His father had mentioned “a small procedure.” Dayo had said he hoped it went well and then moved the conversation toward work. “He said small procedure.” His mother sat beside him. “He did not want you to worry.” Dayo laughed once. “That's funny.” “Dayo.” “No, it's fine.” “Nothing about this is fine when you use that voice.” He looked at his plate. “Did he almost die?” “No.” “Then okay.” His mother sighed.
He ate. The rice was exactly the same. That was another betrayal. Some things had no right to remain unchanged. His father returned and sat down with visible effort. For several minutes, they watched television again. Then Baba Afolabi said, “Your company treats you well?” “Yes.” “You are saving?” Dayo's jaw tightened. “Yes.” “Good.” There it was again. Good. The praise he had wanted at twelve, seventeen, twenty-five. The word was too small now and still capable of reaching him. Dayo set his fork down. His father looked over. “What?” “Nothing.” Baba Afolabi studied him. Dayo waited for the old challenge. Say what you want to say. Instead his father looked back at the television. Twenty minutes later, Mama Afolabi told Dayo his old room was ready. He picked up his bag. At the foot of the stairs, his father called his name. Dayo turned. Baba Afolabi rested both hands on the walking stick.
“Good,” he said. “You came.” Dayo did not know what to do with that. His father continued, “Come again.” Not stay longer. Not why did you leave. Not I am sorry. Come again. Dayo looked at him. Anger moved through him so fast it felt almost clean. Eleven years, and the man was asking for another visit as if Dayo had merely been busy. He wanted to say it. He wanted to break the room open. Instead he heard himself answer, “We'll see.” Then he carried his bag upstairs.