On the third morning of his visit, Dayo found his mother watering plants in the front compound. He had slept badly. Not because of noise. Because there was none. The silence of the house had become unfamiliar enough to wake him. His father was inside reading the paper. Dayo had heard him cough twice and then the scrape of a chair. Normal sounds. He hated that his body still translated them. Mama Afolabi handed him the watering can without asking. “Do the hibiscus.” He gave her a disbelieving look. “I came outside to think.” “You can think and water.” “Is this how you treat visitors?” “You are not a visitor.” The sentence landed lightly and stayed. He took the can. The hibiscus had grown tall along the wall. He poured too much water at the first plant. “Not flood,” his mother said. “Mummy.” “I am helping.” “You are supervising.” “That is also help.” He moved to the next plant.
For a while they worked without speaking. Then Dayo said, “Amaka is pregnant.” The watering can in his mother's hand tilted. Water ran over her slipper. She righted it slowly. “Oh.” The soil at his feet suddenly required all his attention. “How far?” “About seven weeks.” His mother set the can down. “Is she okay?” “Yes.” “And you?” The question irritated him because everyone asked it now. He glanced at her. “No.” She nodded. No lecture. No panic. No celebration. Dayo realized he had expected all three. “I left her alone for almost two weeks,” he said. His mother's face changed. “Not physically. I went to appointments. I answered messages. But…” “You went away.” He met her eyes. “Yes.” Mama Afolabi bent and adjusted the hose near a planter.
“Because of your father?” “Because of me.” She straightened. Dayo rubbed a hand over his face. “I saw the test and all I could think was that one day I would become him.” His mother was quiet. “I know that's irrational.” “Fear has a long memory for old information.” He gave her a look. “Therapy again?” “Very expensive therapy. You should respect it.” He almost smiled. Then his face tightened. “What if I do?” “Do what?” “Become him.” His mother studied him. “Which him?” Dayo frowned. “What does that mean?” “The man who taught you to tie your shoes? The man who drank? The man who frightened us? The man who tried to stop? The man inside now with one bad hip pretending he does not care that you came?” Dayo's jaw tightened. “Don't make him complicated to make me feel better.” “I am not making him anything. He is complicated.” “Fine. The part that hurt people.” His mother nodded slowly. “What do you think you inherited from him?”
Dayo laughed without humour. “That's the entire problem. I don't know.” “Temper?” “Maybe.” “Pride?” “Yes.” “Silence?” His gaze dropped to the soil. “Probably.” “His shoulders.” Dayo glanced at her. She smiled faintly. “Those definitely.” “Mummy.” “I am serious. You are naming inheritance as though it is only poison.” “Some poison is inherited.” “Yes. So is medicine.” He said nothing. She stepped closer. “You inherited his stubbornness. You used it to survive university when money was terrible. You inherited my habit of watching people too closely. You use it to manage projects. You inherited fear. You also inherited the capacity to choose differently.” Dayo's expression hardened. “How do you know?” “Because you already did.” “When?” “You left.” The answer struck him. “That was running.”
“It was also choosing.” “I left you here.” “Yes.” The word hurt. His mother did not soften it. “And I told you to.” “That doesn't make it right.” “It made it necessary.” The gate caught a strip of sunlight along one edge. His mother continued. “You keep asking whether you are your father.” “What else should I ask?” “What you are doing today.” He was silent. “You will not answer it once,” she said. “You will answer it again tomorrow.” Dayo thought of the days after the test, of Amaka carrying his silence without knowing what it meant. He thought of the clinic. His messages. His silence. “I chose badly for twelve days.” “Yes.” The lack of reassurance stung. She held his gaze. “Then choose again.” The sentence was so simple it almost angered him. Then he remembered his father on the rug. Cross. Pull. Ear. Around. Through. Failure had once been temporary.
Before the house taught him otherwise. The watering can felt absurdly ordinary in his hand. His mother picked up hers. “Finish the hibiscus,” she said. He laughed. This time, he did not stop himself.