The second evening, Dayo found his mother in the kitchen after his father had gone to bed. He had spent most of the day outside. Not deliberately, he told himself. He had gone to see the neighbourhood. He had taken a call from work. He had bought toothpaste because he had forgotten his. He had sat in a café for an hour with one coffee. By seven, he had exhausted every respectable excuse. Dinner was quiet. His father asked about a construction project he had seen on television. Dayo answered. His mother complained that neither man ate enough vegetables. His father said he had survived sixty-one years without being bullied by broccoli and did not intend to start. Dayo laughed before remembering not to. The moment irritated him for the rest of the meal. At ten, the house settled. Dayo came downstairs for water and saw light under the kitchen door. His mother stood at the counter in a nightdress, transferring soup into plastic containers. Babycat lingered faintly on her skin, quieter now after the day. “You're awake,” she said. “So are you.” “I am always awake.” “That sounds healthy.” She smiled. He opened the refrigerator, took out water and drank directly from the bottle. His mother slapped his arm lightly. “Use a cup.” They looked at each other.
Then both laughed. For several seconds, he was fifteen. The feeling vanished first. “Mummy.” She kept arranging containers. “Hmm?” “Why didn't you leave?” Her hands stopped. Dayo almost apologized. He did not. “I asked you fourteen years ago.” “I remember.” “You said, where would I go.” “I remember that too.” “You had places.” “Yes.” “Then why?” His mother put the lid on one container, pressed each corner until it clicked, then wiped her hands on a towel. “Do you want the answer you wanted at fourteen or the answer I have now?” Dayo leaned against the counter. “The true one.” “They are both true.” He waited. She pulled out a chair and sat. Dayo remained standing. “That year,” she said, “I did not know myself outside being your father's wife and your mother.” “That doesn't explain staying.”
“No. It explains why leaving felt like falling off the edge of the earth.” Dayo's face hardened. “You had a job.” “A job is not a life.” “You had family.” “Yes. Family who would have taken me in and reminded me every morning that they had taken me in.” “So people talking mattered more than what was happening here?” His mother looked at him. “I did not say that.” “You don't have to.” “Dayo.” “No. I need to understand.” “Then stop arranging my answer before I give it.” The reprimand was sharp enough to make him silent. “I was ashamed.” Dayo's attention sharpened. “Of what?” “Everything. Of what the marriage had become. Of what I had tolerated. Of what people might say. Of what you saw. Of the fact that sometimes he was still the man I loved and I did not know what to do with that.” Dayo's jaw tightened. “You loved him.” “Yes.” “While he was doing all that.” “Yes.” The certainty angered him. “How?” His mother gave him a tired smile.
“You think love is a reward for good behaviour?” “I think at some point it should stop.” “Sometimes it does.” “And yours didn't?” “Not when you wanted it to.” He turned toward the sink. She continued more quietly. “That does not make what he did acceptable.” “I didn't say it did.” “You are hearing explanation as defence.” “Because everyone always has an explanation.” His mother flinched. He saw it and kept going. “He was stressed. Business was bad. He was ashamed. He drank. You were afraid. Everybody has a reason and somehow I was still the child in the corridor.” The kitchen went silent. Mama Afolabi looked down at her hands. When she spoke, her voice was almost too soft. “Yes.” Dayo stopped. “Yes what?” “Yes. You were still the child in the corridor.” His anger lost direction. She looked at him. “And that is the part I cannot explain away.” Dayo's throat tightened. “I should have protected you better.” For a moment, he could not speak. She did not cry.
Neither did he. “I did what I knew how to do,” she said. “And some of what I knew was not enough.” Dayo sat across from her. For the first time since arriving, he felt older than the house. “What happened to him?” he asked. His mother looked toward the closed kitchen door. “In 2000?” She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “Your father lost almost everything.”