Ibadan, 2013 The night Dayo left, his bag was already packed. His mother knew. He discovered that at 5:20 a.m. when he came downstairs carrying it and found her standing in the kitchen doorway in a wrapper over her nightdress. Dawn had not fully arrived. The house was grey with early light. His father's bedroom door remained closed upstairs. “You are going today,” she said. It was not a question. “Yes.” “Lagos?” “Yes.” “To Kunle's place?” His face gave him away. “How do you know?” “I am your mother.” “That is not an answer.” She smiled faintly. “You went through my things?” “No. I have been watching you prepare for three months.” He had thought he was careful. Saving transport money. Calling Kunle outside. Giving away books he could not carry. Copying documents. Moving clothes slowly into the bag so it would not suddenly look full. His mother had seen all of it. “Are you going to stop me?” “No.” The answer came too quickly. “How much do you have?”
“Enough.” “How much?” “₦12,000.” Her face tightened. “That is not enough.” “It has to be.” “I can give you—” “No.” “Dayo.” “No. You already gave me money. Then it went to the car.” Regret arrived immediately. Two days earlier, she had taken most of the money from the envelope where they had both been contributing. His father's car had broken down, and there had been no other cash before payday. She had cried when she told him. Dayo had said it was fine. Apparently it was not. “I am sorry,” he said. She nodded, went into the kitchen and returned with a small envelope. “Take.” “How much?” “Not enough.” Inside was ₦5,000. “Mummy, where did you get this?” “Does it matter?” “Yes.” “No.” He put it in his pocket. “Thank you.” Neither knew what to do next. His eyes went to the stairs. “Are you going to tell him?”
“When he wakes.” “He'll call.” “Then decide whether you want to answer.” The permission stunned him. His mother came closer. “Do you remember what I told you?” “When?” “You were fourteen.” Go. Make a life. “Yes.” “I meant it.” His eyes burned. “What about you?” “I am still finding my own way.” Dayo wanted to tell her to come with him. He had imagined it many times: two bags, a bus station, Lagos, freedom. But freedom was expensive even in imagination. He did not yet have enough for himself. “I'll send money when I can.” “No.” He frowned. “You will first stand on your own feet,” she said. “Rent. Food. Transport. Finish school. Then you can decide what you have to give anybody.” “But—” “You are not rescuing me from Lagos.” The words took him back to the kitchen six years earlier. You are fourteen. “You remember everything.” “Unfortunately.” He laughed once, and the sound almost broke him. Then he hugged her.
She held him tightly. “I am proud of you.” “For leaving?” “For knowing you need to.” Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Both looked toward the ceiling. Dayo's body reacted before thought. His mother's face changed too. The old choreography. He hated it. “Go,” she said. He picked up his bag. His mother followed him into the hallway and straightened the collar of his shirt even though it did not need straightening. “Call me when you get there.” “I will.” “Not message. Call.” “Yes, Mummy.” “And don't let Kunle turn your money into enjoyment.” Dayo laughed. “You know Kunle?” “I know boys.” For a few seconds they were simply mother and son preparing for a journey, and the normality of it hurt more than another speech would have. At the front door, he looked once toward the sitting room. The brown sofa. The old television cabinet. The place on the wall where the paint was slightly different after the lamp. Then he stepped outside. The morning air was cool. The gate stuck. Of course it did. He pulled once. Nothing.
Twice. It opened. Dayo stepped through with ₦17,000, one bag, a university degree not yet complete and a certainty larger than all of them. He pulled the gate closed behind him. It caught halfway. He pulled again. The latch dropped. He did not look back.