The week after Ibadan was almost disappointingly normal. Dayo returned to work. Amaka returned to patients. The retaining wall was recast. A supplier missed a delivery. Amaka vomited into a supermarket bag in traffic and then laughed so hard at Dayo's horrified face that she nearly vomited again. They argued about crackers. “Those ones taste like cardboard,” she said. “They are crackers. Their entire job is to be dry.” “There is dry and there is punishment.” “You said the doctor recommended plain food.” “The doctor did not prescribe sadness.” He bought the expensive imported crackers she wanted. She ate three and decided she hated them too. Dayo said nothing. His silence was so pointed she threw one at him. For four days, he allowed himself to believe the worst had passed. Then Thursday arrived. He woke irritable. No nightmare. No obvious trigger. Just a thin current under his skin. At work, two things went wrong before nine. A subcontractor failed to mobilize enough labour. The client sent comments on drawings already approved. By noon, Dayo had corrected a junior engineer so sharply the young man went quiet. Dayo heard his own voice after the words left him.
“You checked this?” “Yes, sir.” “Then what exactly did you check? Because the dimension is wrong in three places.” The engineer looked down. Dayo felt the old satisfaction of control. Then disgust. He closed the drawing. “Come back.” The young man paused. Dayo lowered his voice. “The mistake is serious. My tone was unnecessary. Fix the dimensions and bring it back by three.” The engineer blinked. “Okay, sir.” “Good.” After he left, Dayo sat alone in the site office. His heart was beating too fast. He had not shouted. He had not insulted anyone. The fear did not care. At six, Amaka called. “Are you coming over?” Traffic below the office window had begun its evening crawl. “I don't know.” A pause. “What happened?” “Nothing.” The word came automatically. Amaka said nothing.
Dayo closed his eyes. “Work was bad.” “Okay.” “I was sharp with someone.” “Sharp how?” “I spoke badly. Not terrible. Just…” “Like your father?” The question cut. His jaw tightened. “No.” “I'm asking, not accusing.” “It didn't sound like it.” “Then tell me what it was like.” Dayo stared at the wall. “I was angry because he made a mistake. I wanted him to feel how serious it was.” “And?” “And I realized I was enjoying the fact that he was uncomfortable.” Amaka was quiet. Dayo's shame deepened. “There,” he said. “That's exactly what I'm talking about.” “What are you talking about?” “That there are parts of him in me.” “Of course there are.” He flinched. “Of course there are. There are parts of everybody who raised you in you. That is not the same as becoming them. What matters is what you do when you catch it.” Dayo rubbed his forehead. “I apologized.” “To the engineer?”
“Yes.” “Did your father?” Dayo went quiet. “Sometimes. Badly.” “Then maybe the difference isn't that you never feel what he felt.” Dayo leaned back. “Maybe.” “Come over.” He hesitated. “I don't think I'll be good company.” “I didn't invite good company. I invited you.” He almost smiled. Then fear returned. “What if I come and I'm irritable with you?” “Then I will tell you.” “And if I—” “Dayo.” He stopped. “I am not your mother in 2006,” Amaka said. “If you treat me badly, I will not move carefully around you for twenty-two years. I will say it. If it continues, I will leave.” The sentence hurt. It also did something else. It gave the room exits. Dayo breathed out. “Okay.” “And one more thing.” “What?” “Don't make me keep telling you you're nothing like him every time you're scared.” He was silent.
Amaka's voice softened. “I can't give you that guarantee. What you do next is the evidence.” Below the site office, headlights gathered along the road. “I'll come,” he said. “Bring food.” “Of course.” “And not crackers.” He smiled. “Noted.” When he arrived, Amaka kissed him at the door and then stepped back. “You look terrible.” “Thank you.” “I mean tired.” “I know.” He held up a takeaway bag. “Rice.” “Now I remember why I love you.” They ate on the sofa. At one point Amaka asked a harmless question about work and Dayo answered too sharply. She looked at him. He heard it. “Sorry,” he said immediately. “Thank you.” No drama. The room remained the same temperature. Long after the conversation moved on, Dayo kept noticing that. Ibadan had not cured him. The relief was in knowing a cure had never been the job.
A cure happened once. This would have to be practice.