By Tuesday morning, Dayo had solved the retaining-wall problem. The concrete core tests came back below specification. The affected section would be demolished and recast. There would be cost. There would be delay. There would be an argument about liability that three companies would eventually hand to lawyers and accountants. But the wall would be sound. Dayo stood on the site with his hard hat tucked beneath one arm while the contractor complained. “You know this can set us back ten days.” “I know.” “And the client will ask questions.” “They should.” The man sighed. “You like difficult things.” Dayo looked at the wall. “No. I like things that won't collapse later.” The sentence stayed with him all day. At lunch, he sat in his car with the air-conditioning running and did not eat. His phone showed no messages from Amaka. He had wanted space. He discovered space was loud. He opened Instagram, closed it, opened his banking app, closed it, checked his email, answered something that could wait and finally opened his calendar. Thursday was blocked for a project review. The word itself made his stomach tighten. Thursday. He scrolled back through old dates for no reason.
Three Thursdays ago: dinner with Amaka at a small restaurant in Victoria Island. She had ordered grilled fish and stolen his potatoes. He had complained theatrically. She had laughed. Seven Thursdays ago: she had come to his apartment after a difficult day and fallen asleep with her head on his thigh while he watched television. Eleven years ago, Thursdays had meant nothing. Seventeen years ago, one Thursday had become a room he still carried. He locked the phone. “Sir?” Dayo looked up. A junior engineer stood beside the car. “Yes?” “They need you at Block C.” “I'm coming.” He stepped out, put on his hard hat and returned to the part of life where he knew what to do. That evening, instead of going home, he drove to Lekki. He had no destination until he found himself parked outside the fragrance shop where he had bought his first bottle of Gris Charnel years ago. The original store had changed names twice, but the unit still sold perfume. He went inside. Cold air. Glass shelves. Soft lighting designed to make every bottle look like a private decision. A sales assistant approached. “Good evening, sir. Are you looking for anything particular?” “No.” He almost left. Then he saw Gris Charnel on a shelf and picked up the tester. “You know it?” the assistant asked. “Yes.”
He sprayed once onto a paper strip. Black tea first. Fig. Something creamy and dry underneath. At twenty-two, it had smelled like freedom. He had been earning badly, living in a room in Yaba with a wardrobe that refused to close properly and a ceiling fan that clicked all night. He had saved for months to buy a laptop. Instead, one payday, he walked into a perfume store and spent a stupid percentage of his salary on a bottle because he wanted one thing that had no history attached to it. No father's aftershave. No mother's powder. No furniture chosen before he had opinions. No house. Just him. The assistant smiled. “It's very popular with men who like something smooth but different.” The paper strip rested between his fingers. “What if you don't want different anymore?” The assistant blinked. He laughed softly. “Sorry. Long day.” “No problem, sir.” He bought nothing. On the drive home he passed a father on a motorcycle with a small boy seated in front of him, both wearing helmets too large for the child's head. At a traffic light, the boy turned sideways and said something. The father bent his head to listen. The light changed. They disappeared between cars. Dayo gripped the steering wheel. He did not know what frightened him more: becoming his father, or discovering that the fear of becoming his father had already made him capable of hurting someone differently.
At home, he showered and changed into shorts. He opened the cabinet above the television where he kept documents he rarely needed. University transcripts. Old employment letters. Property papers. At the back was a small envelope. Inside it were photographs his mother had given him years ago. He sat on the floor. The first showed him at about six, grinning with one front tooth missing. His father stood behind him with both hands on his shoulders. Dayo turned it over. His mother's handwriting: Dayo's 6th birthday, 1998. Another photograph. Christmas 2002. Another. A school event. Another. His father asleep on a sofa while Dayo, perhaps four, slept on his chest. He held that photograph longer than the others. Memory had made Baba Afolabi simple. The photographs refused. Dayo put them back into the envelope too quickly. His phone vibrated. For one wild second, he thought it was Amaka. It was his younger colleague asking for a document. He sent it. Then he opened Amaka's chat. Typed: Can I see you tonight? Deleted it.
Typed: I am sorry. Deleted that too. Typed nothing. The screen dimmed in his hand. His father had stayed and made staying unbearable. Dayo had built the opposite method: leave before anyone could ask enough of him to make departure hurt. From inside the method, it had always looked like freedom. He turned the phone face down. The insight should have changed something. It did not. Not yet.