Baba Afolabi was standing when Dayo came downstairs with his bag. His father had one hand on the walking stick and the other resting against the back of the armchair. He had clearly been in the process of sitting or rising and had stopped when he heard Dayo. “You are going?” “Yes.” “So soon.” Dayo nearly laughed. Eleven years and his father had found a way to call three days soon. “I have work Monday.” “Today is Saturday.” “I know.” Dayo looked at his father. Baba Afolabi lowered himself into the chair. Dayo could have left then. A clean exit. Three days survived. No confrontation with the man himself. Only his mother, history, perfume and carefully rationed conversation. He hated the familiarity of that solution. He put the bag down. “Mummy, can you give us a minute?” His mother's eyes moved between them. “Of course.” She left without pretending not to be concerned. Dayo remained standing. His father looked up at him.
“What is it?” “Do you remember 2009?” Baba Afolabi's expression did not change. “That is a year.” “March.” A pause. His father's eyes dropped to the walking stick. “Yes.” “You remember.” “Yes.” “11:47.” His father closed his eyes once. Dayo's chest tightened. “You remember the time?” “No.” “But you remember the night.” “Yes.” Dayo waited for more. Nothing came. Anger rose. “You grabbed me.” “I remember.” “You grabbed Mummy.” “I remember.” “You broke the lamp.” “I remember.” “Then why have you never said anything?” His father looked up.
“I tried.” Dayo laughed sharply. “Fifteen seconds in my bedroom is not saying anything.” “No.” “You said it was too late for some things and you were trying to make it less late. Then you asked about school.” Baba Afolabi nodded. “I remember that too.” “Do you remember everything?” “No.” “Convenient.” His father flinched. “I spent years remembering enough for both of us.” “I know.” “No, you don't.” Baba Afolabi's hand tightened around the walking stick. “You are right.” He had prepared arguments for denial, defensiveness, anger. His father continued. “I do not know what it was like to be you in that house.” Dayo's throat tightened. “I know what I did. Some of it. I know what your mother told me later. I know the look on your face when I entered a room.” Dayo went still. Baba Afolabi looked away. “That one I remember very well.” Dayo's voice came quieter. “Why didn't you stop?” His father breathed in slowly.
“I thought stopping meant stopping drinking.” “And?” “And I would stop. Then I would fail. Then I would think because I failed, everything was already spoiled, so what difference did one more night make?” “That is pathetic.” “Yes.” His father's voice was rougher when he continued. “I was ashamed.” “Mummy said.” “She told you about Femi?” “Yes.” Baba Afolabi's jaw tightened. For a second, the old man disappeared and Dayo saw the proud younger one. “Do not use that to forgive me.” Dayo looked at him. “I wasn't planning to.” “Good.” The word again. This time it almost made Dayo smile. His father saw and frowned slightly. “What?” “Nothing.” Dayo sat on the sofa opposite him. “What do you want from me?” Baba Afolabi took a long time to answer. “Nothing you don't want to give.” “That sounds rehearsed.” “It is.” Dayo blinked.
His father rubbed one hand over his knee. “I have had many years to think of what I would say if you came.” “And this is it?” “No.” A faint, embarrassed smile. “Most of what I thought was nonsense.” Dayo stared at him. “I wanted to explain. Your mother told me explanations can become another way to make the injured person carry the story.” Instead he said, “Did you go back to counselling?” His father looked offended. “Your mother told you everything.” “Not everything.” “Yes. I went.” “Did you hate it?” “Yes.” Dayo laughed. His father did too. The sound was small and strange. Then Baba Afolabi's face settled. “I am sorry.” Dayo stopped breathing for a moment. “I am sorry for what I did to your mother. I am sorry for what you saw. I am sorry that you learned to be afraid in my house.” Dayo stared at him. He looked away before tears could become a conversation. “That doesn't fix it.” “No.” “I don't know if I forgive you.” “I know.” “I may never.”
His father nodded. “I know.” For years, he had imagined this moment and believed the right apology would rearrange the past. The real apology did nothing of the sort. The corridor remained. 11:47 remained. His mother's wrist remained. But something else entered the room beside them. Not forgiveness. Possibility. Dayo stood. His father reached for the walking stick and began pushing himself up. “Stay,” Dayo said automatically. Baba Afolabi gave him a look. “I can stand to greet my son.” He rose with visible effort. His father held out his hand. Dayo looked at it. Then took it. The handshake lasted too long to be casual and not long enough to be an embrace. Baba Afolabi released him first. “Come again,” he said. This time Dayo did not hear it as an attempt to erase eleven years. He heard it for what it was. A request for one more day in the future. “I will,” Dayo said. His father's eyes changed. “Good.”
Dayo picked up his bag. At the front door, his mother hugged him and made him promise twice to put the stew in the refrigerator. He stepped into the compound. The gate stuck. He pulled once. Nothing. Twice. It opened. On the pavement, he turned. His mother stood at the door. Behind her, his father was visible in the sitting room, leaning on the stick. Dayo raised one hand. His father raised his. Then Dayo pulled the gate closed. It stuck halfway. He pulled again. The latch dropped. This time, he looked back before walking away.