The story began with a man named Femi Sanya. Dayo remembered him vaguely. Uncle Femi, though there was no blood relation. Loud laugh. Gold watch. The sort of adult who gave children money in folded notes and told them not to tell their parents while the parents watched. “He and your father started the business together,” Mama Afolabi said. “I know.” “No. You know they worked together. You don't know what happened.” Dayo leaned back in the kitchen chair. His mother folded the towel in front of her, then unfolded it. “They had been building it for seven years. Your father handled operations. Femi handled most of the banking and suppliers because he had the relationships. In 2000, we discovered he had been moving money.” “How much?” “At the time? Enough.” “Mummy.” She named the figure. In 2000, it was ruinous. “He borrowed against things your father did not know had been pledged. Suppliers came. Banks came. Staff had not been paid. Your father spent three months trying to keep the company alive.” “And Femi?” “Gone.” “Gone where?” “South Africa first. Then I don't know.” Dayo frowned. “Why didn't Daddy report him?”
“He did. Nothing useful happened quickly. Some documents had your father's signature.” “Forged?” “Some. Some he had signed without reading properly because he trusted him.” The dark window gave back a faint reflection of the kitchen. “So he lost the business.” “Almost. He sold land. We borrowed. I used savings. He kept a smaller version alive for years, but it never became what it was supposed to become.” Dayo felt irritation rise. “And that explains the drinking?” “No.” The answer was immediate. His mother held his gaze. “It explains the wound. It does not excuse what he did with it.” “He had built his entire idea of himself around being the man who could provide, solve, lead. Then he discovered that someone he trusted had made him look foolish and nearly destroyed his family.” “He destroyed his family himself.” “Yes.” The agreement stopped him again. Mama Afolabi rubbed one thumb over the other. “Shame can make people ugly when they do not know what to do with it.” Dayo laughed bitterly. “That is a gentle way to say alcoholism.” “I am not trying to be gentle.” “It sounds like therapy.” “It probably is.” He turned to her. She said it plainly.
“I started therapy in 2015.” Dayo blinked. “You?” “Yes, me. Are you shocked?” “Yes.” She smiled faintly. “Good. It means I still have mystery.” He did not smile back. “Why didn't you tell me?” “Why would I?” “Because…” He stopped. Because he had expected access without offering any. His mother saw the realization. “I needed to understand why I stayed,” she said. “Not for your father. For myself.” “And?” “And there was not one reason. Money mattered. Reputation mattered. Love mattered. Fear mattered. My own upbringing mattered. The fact that he could be kind for months mattered. The fact that every time I reached the point of leaving, something improved just enough to make me question myself mattered.” “Where would I go was not the only question,” she continued. “It was simply the only one I could say to a fourteen-year-old boy without admitting I did not understand myself.” “What changed?” “In me?” “Yes.” “Time. Anger. Therapy. You leaving.” Dayo's head lifted. “Me?” “You thought I didn't know what it meant when you left?” “I knew.” “What did it mean?”
“That my son believed the only way to be safe was to leave his family.” Dayo's throat tightened. His mother continued. “I had to decide whether I was going to spend the rest of my life telling myself I had no choices.” “And did you leave?” “No.” “Then what changed?” “I did.” Dayo frowned. “I stopped covering for him. I stopped lying to family. I moved money into an account only I controlled. I told him if he put his hands on me again, I would leave and I would tell everyone why.” His surprise showed. “And?” “He believed me.” “Just like that?” “No. Nothing is just like that.” She leaned back. “He had reduced the drinking before then. There were relapses. Arguments. A lot of ugly honesty. I left the house twice for short periods. He went for counselling once and hated it. Then again. He stopped completely for nearly a year. Started again. Reduced. Stopped. It was not a straight line.” Dayo thought of the fifteen seconds in his bedroom. “I know it is too late for some things. I am trying to make it less late.” His mother watched him. “He told me he said something to you once.” Dayo looked up. “He told you?” “Yes.”
“When?” “Years later.” “What did he say?” “That he tried to apologize and failed.” Dayo laughed softly. “That is accurate.” “He has a talent for accuracy after the useful moment.” This time Dayo did smile. It vanished quickly. “Mummy, why are you still with him now?” His mother looked toward the hallway. “Because now I choose to be.” The answer unsettled him. “That is different from where would I go.” “Yes.” “Are you happy?” She considered the question instead of giving him comfort. “Some days.” He almost objected. Then she added, “More days than not. And the days I am not, I no longer believe I am trapped inside them.” The table between them seemed suddenly full of categories that no longer held. Stay or leave. Victim or escape. Father or not-father. His mother had broken the neatest model he had. He hated the mess of it. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked. His mother shook her head. “I don't know.” “You called me here—”
“I did not call you here. You came.” He stopped. She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “For once, Dayo, maybe nobody gets to tell you what to do next.”