On Friday morning, Dayo sent Amaka a message at 6:13. Morning. Did you sleep? She replied twelve minutes later. Not much. You? Same. At 8:40 he sent another message. Please book the hospital appointment when you can. I'll cover everything. The moment it left his phone, he knew he had done it again. Converted fear into administration. Amaka replied at 10:02. Okay. At work, he was excellent. A subcontractor had poured the wrong grade of concrete for part of a retaining wall in Victoria Island. By 9:30 Dayo had photographs, delivery tickets and three men insisting it was somebody else's fault. “What was specified?” he asked. “M30.” “What was delivered?” “Sir, the ticket—” “I didn't ask what the ticket says. What was delivered?” Silence. “Stop work on this section. Nothing continues until we test it.” “Sir, that will affect programme.” “A failed wall will affect programme more.” Nobody argued. Structures made sense to Dayo. Loads travelled somewhere. Stress had direction. Cracks told you what they meant if you knew how to look.
Human beings were badly designed by comparison. At 1:17 Amaka sent the clinic details for Monday afternoon. Noted. I'll be there, he replied. He almost added a heart. He did not. Friday evening became Saturday. Saturday became Sunday. He answered when she texted. He asked if she had eaten. He sent money for the appointment even though she had not asked. He did everything except call. On Sunday at 5:02, his mother called from Ibadan. “My son.” “Mummy.” “Happy birthday again.” “My birthday was last week.” “Can I not continue celebrating the person I suffered to give birth to?” He smiled despite himself. They spoke for seven minutes. Church. Work. Whether he was eating. Whether Amaka was well. At her name, his attention fixed on the balcony door. “She is fine,” he said. The lie came easily because fine was not a fact. It was a door he could close. His mother paused. “And you?” “Fine.” “Good.” For years their Sunday calls had stayed within safe borders. His father lived just outside them. Before they ended, his mother said, “Your father asked if you are coming home this year.” Dayo's jaw tightened. “What did you tell him?” “That I don't know.”
“Good.” After the call, he stood on the balcony until mosquitoes found him. Monday morning arrived with the appointment sitting in his calendar like a meeting he could prepare for. He wore a white shirt, grey trousers and Gris Charnel. He reached the clinic twenty minutes early. Amaka arrived nine minutes later in navy scrubs under a light cardigan, her work bag on one shoulder. “Hi,” she said. “Hi.” He reached for the bag. She kept it. “I can carry it.” “I know.” Inside, they filled forms. Name. Age. Last menstrual period. Emergency contact. Amaka wrote his name in the emergency-contact box. Dayo watched the pen move. Something tightened under his ribs. When the nurse called Amaka, Dayo stood too. “Only the patient for now, sir.” He sat back down. For eleven minutes he stared at a poster about folic acid without reading it. When Amaka returned, she held a small paper envelope. “Well?” he asked. “Pregnant.” He had known. Confirmation still landed differently. “How far?” “About six weeks. They'll date it properly at the scan.” “Everything okay?”
“So far.” He gave a small nod, buying himself another second. Amaka looked at him for a long moment. “You haven't called me.” “I've been talking to you.” “You've been sending messages.” “I didn't know what to say.” “You could have said that.” His attention dropped to the envelope in her hands. She shifted the envelope in her hand. “I can give you time, Dayo. What I cannot do is stand outside whatever room you lock yourself in and pretend that is a relationship.” His first instinct was defence. He let the defence die before it reached his mouth. “I know.” “No. You know the sentence. I need to know whether you understand it.” He looked at the envelope, then at her. “I need time.” Her face did not soften, but neither did it close. “How much?” His mind, usually so willing to produce a number, gave him none. “Four days,” she said. “You've already had four. Take the rest of today. Tomorrow, call me. Not text. Call.” “And if I don't?” Amaka's eyes held his. “Then I'll know what you chose.” She walked toward the exit. Dayo stayed seated for another minute, staring at the empty chair beside him. He had spent four days telling himself he had made no decision. For the first time, he understood that silence was one.