Ibadan, 2001 By nine, Dayo could tell how the evening would go from the sound of the gate. Nobody taught him. Children become experts in whatever keeps them safe. The gate had three main sounds. One: a clean metal scrape, followed by the latch dropping once. Good. Two: a hard shove, metal striking concrete, then the latch twice. Watch. Three: the gate thrown wide enough to hit the wall. Go upstairs. Rain changed the sound. Harmattan changed it too. Sometimes a neighbour held the gate and ruined the first reading, which meant Dayo had to wait for footsteps. Footsteps were more reliable anyway. On the Wednesday he later remembered most clearly, the gate gave him a two. He was at the dining table doing mathematics homework. His mother was in the kitchen. The television was on low. Scrape. Hit. Latch. Latch. Dayo's pencil stopped. His mother did not come out of the kitchen. That was information too. Front door. Keys on the console. Shoes. One foot heavier than the other. Not stumbling. Good. Not good-good. Seven out of ten. He had invented the scale that year. One meant his father came home with bread or suya and asked about school. Three meant quiet. Five meant everybody should stay in their lane. Seven meant his mother would become careful with plates. Nine meant Dayo should sleep facing the wall and pretend not to hear.
Ten had happened only once. He did not score that night anymore. His father entered the dining room. “Dayo.” “Good evening, Daddy.” “What are you doing?” “Maths.” “Show me.” Dayo's stomach tightened. Baba Afolabi was excellent at maths. On the wrong evening, a missed multiplication sign could become a lecture on concentration, discipline, education and the future of Nigeria. Dayo turned the notebook around. His father pulled out a chair. The smell arrived when he leaned closer. Alcohol. Not overwhelming. Seven. “Why did you do this one like this?” “I thought—” “Don't think first. Read first.” His voice was still calm. From the kitchen, a spoon struck the side of a pot. Once. His mother's signal was not deliberate. Dayo knew that even then, but he heard it as one. Careful. His father pointed. “What does the question say?” Dayo read it aloud. “And what are they asking you?” He answered.
“So?” Dayo erased the line and tried again. This time he got it right. His father nodded. “You see? You rush.” “Yes, Daddy.” “Stop rushing.” “Yes, Daddy.” Baba Afolabi stood and rested one hand briefly on the back of Dayo's neck. The touch was affectionate. Dayo's body flinched before understanding it. His father noticed. Only for a second. The hand left. Nothing was said. Dayo stared at the notebook until the numbers blurred. His father went to the sitting room and turned up the television. A football commentator filled the house with manufactured excitement. Mama Afolabi came out carrying a bowl of stew. “You finished?” she asked. “Yes.” She looked at the page, then at him. “Good.” Dayo wanted to ask whether she had heard the chair scrape, whether she had counted the footsteps, whether she also gave evenings numbers. Instead he said, “I'm hungry.” At dinner, his father complained about fuel prices, praised the stew and asked Dayo about school. Once, he reached across the table for water and Dayo tensed so quickly his spoon struck his plate. His mother looked at him. His father did too. “What?” Baba Afolabi asked.
“Nothing.” The word came out too fast. His father watched him for a moment, then poured the water. Nothing happened. When dinner ended, his father called him back from the corridor. “Dayo.” He froze. “Your mathematics.” Dayo waited. “You did well after you corrected it.” “Yes, Daddy.” “Good night.” “Good night.” He walked upstairs confused by the relief in his own body. Praise and fear had come from the same mouth within an hour. At nine, he had no way to separate them cleanly. Later, Dayo lay in bed listening to the house settle. Pipes. A door. His mother's slippers. His father's cough. Seven out of ten had never become eight. That should have made the evening good. Instead, Dayo stayed awake long after the house became quiet, waiting for a danger that had already decided not to come. Sometimes fear did not need the bad thing to happen. Sometimes the waiting was enough.