Dayo left the house before breakfast on Saturday and walked until the neighbourhood stopped feeling like evidence. The kiosk that once sold him sweets on credit was now a pharmacy. The barber shop where his father took him had become a betting office. A church occupied the corner where boys used to play football until somebody's mother shouted them home. Time had not preserved the setting for his return. He found that comforting. At Ring Road, traffic moved in impatient bursts. Danfo buses, private cars, motorcycles, delivery vans. Vendors held belts, fruit, phone accessories and improbable kitchen appliances toward windows. Dayo stopped outside a perfume shop almost by accident. Then he saw the Amouage bottles through the glass. He entered. The shop was cool and bright. A woman behind the counter looked up from her phone. “Good morning, sir.” “Morning.” “Can I help you?” “Guidance.” “Amouage Guidance?” “Yes.” She reached for a bottle. “EDP?” “Yes.” The saleswoman sprayed a blotter and handed it to him. The scent opened with rose and frankincense, something smooth beneath the spice, then warm wood and amber. The bus returned to him. The stranger beside him.
The absurd thought: an embrace arriving late. “You like it?” the saleswoman asked. “I think so.” “It develops nicely on skin.” “Spray me.” “One wrist?” “Both.” Two sprays landed cool on his skin. Dayo walked around the shop while it settled. The woman began explaining notes and performance. He listened just enough to be polite. At twenty-two, he had bought Gris Charnel because it smelled like nothing he remembered. Guidance was different. He let the difference settle on his wrists. “I'll take it.” The woman named the price. Dayo blinked. She smiled. “I told you the drydown is beautiful.” He laughed. “Fine.” While she packed the bottle, his phone rang. Amaka. He answered. “Hi.” “Hi. How are you?” He watched the box disappear into a black paper bag. “Complicated.” “That sounds more honest than fine.” “I'm learning.” A small pause. “How is the house?” “Smaller.” Amaka waited.
“My father is smaller too.” “Is that good?” “I don't know.” “Okay.” The word no longer irritated him. “My mother told me things,” he said. “What things?” “I'll tell you when I come back.” “Are you coming back today?” “Yes.” He heard her breathe out. “Dayo, don't rush because of me.” “I know.” “You can stay another night if you need to.” “I don't think I do.” “You sure?” The fragrance had warmed on his wrists. “No,” he said. “But I'm coming home.” The word came before he had decided which place it meant. Amaka did not ask. “I'll see you,” she said. “Yes.” After the call, Dayo paid and stepped back into the heat. He bought bottled water from a roadside kiosk and stood beneath a faded umbrella while traffic pushed past. For years, whenever he thought about Ibadan, his body supplied the house first: gate, stairs, sitting room. Now the city kept interrupting.
A barber shop. Traffic. A woman arguing over tomatoes. His father’s voice in an empty church compound teaching him to drive. The house had been real. It had not been all of it. That was harder to hold than anger. On the pavement, a boy no older than ten nearly collided with him while chasing a football. The boy apologised without stopping. A man outside a tyre shop shouted after him to stay off the road. Dayo watched the boy run back to his friends. He remembered ordinary afternoons the house had almost swallowed: football in school shoes, roasted corn at the junction, his mother bargaining over tomatoes and buying extra anyway. His father had taught him to drive in an empty church compound, one hand on the dashboard, refusing to touch the steering wheel even when Dayo stalled twice. Dayo could still hear the impatient instruction - clutch first, then gear - followed by laughter when the car finally moved. None of it cancelled the house. The house did not cancel it either. Not entirely anymore. For years he had reduced Ibadan to the house because reduction made leaving easier. Now the city refused the simplification. Maybe returning was not about recovering what should have happened.