Dayo's first serious relationship ended after thirteen months and three weeks. He had never thought about the number until Amaka. Before Amaka, he thought the endings were different. There was Lara, who wanted him to meet her father before he was ready. There was Bisola, who became suspicious of the parts of him he kept private and then became angry that suspicion had made her suspicious. There was Nneka, who told him one night over dinner that being loved by him felt like living beside a locked room. At the time, he had thought that was dramatic. Three weeks later, they were done. He had never cheated. He had never shouted. He had never called anyone names or smashed a phone or disappeared for days without explanation. He had been proud of the absence of those things. He had confused not being cruel with being safe. The realization came on the eighth day after the pregnancy test while Dayo stood in a conference room and watched his company's commercial director argue about a variation order. “Dayo?” His name pulled him back. “Sorry?” The director frowned. “What do you think?” Ten faces turned toward him. He glanced at the document on the screen and found the relevant page almost instantly. Competence rescued him again. “The contractor has a point on access delay, but not on the full period claimed. We had partial access from the twelfth. Split the entitlement and ask them to substantiate the rest.”
The room moved on. Dayo wrote 14 months in the margin of his notebook. Amaka had crossed that line without ceremony. Their fourteenth month had been during rainy season. He remembered because one evening she arrived soaked from the knee down after stepping into a pothole outside his estate, furious and laughing at the same time. He had made tea. She had borrowed his shorts. They had argued about whether akara counted as dinner and eventually ordered Chinese food. Nothing had happened. No alarm. No instinct to end it. He had simply stayed. Month fifteen. Sixteen. Twenty-four. Two years. His phone vibrated on the table. A message from Amaka. His heart accelerated before he opened it. The doctor sent the blood-test results. Everything looks normal. He read the sentence twice. Then typed: That's good. Thank God. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Yes. He set the phone down. The commercial director was still talking.
Dayo's mind returned to the three relationships before Amaka. He had always believed he left because they were wrong. What if he left because they had become real? Not bad. Real. Real meant being seen. Real meant being needed in ways that could not be scheduled. Real meant another person learning where your furniture ended and your walls began. With Amaka, something had gone differently. He wanted to know why. That desire itself felt dangerous. At six, he finished work and drove toward home. At the Lekki-Ikoyi toll area, traffic slowed to an ugly crawl. A hawker moved between cars selling plantain chips, charging cables and bottled water. Dayo bought water he did not need because refusing felt like another decision. He drank half and called his friend Tunde. Tunde answered with noise behind him. “Chairman.” “Where are you?” “Somewhere responsible husbands go when they have no intention of being responsible.” “What does that mean?” “Football viewing centre. What do you want?” Dayo almost laughed. They had known each other since university. Tunde had married at twenty-nine, had two children and had once told Dayo that family life was ninety percent logistics and ten percent people pretending they were not doing logistics. “Can I ask you something?” “Ah. Serious voice. Wait.” The noise receded. “Okay. Ask.”
“When you found out Kemi was pregnant the first time, what did you feel?” Then, “Is Amaka pregnant?” Dayo cursed under his breath. “Answer the question.” “You called me at 6:17 on a Tuesday to ask how I felt when my wife was pregnant. Brother, I may be married but I am not stupid.” Tunde's voice changed. “Is she?” “Yes.” “Wow.” The word carried genuine surprise, then warmth. “Wow. Okay. Congratulations? Is congratulations correct?” “I don't know.” “Okay. Then I won't force it. Are you both okay?” “She's fine medically.” “I didn't ask medically.” Brake lights held red across the windscreen. “Why does everybody suddenly know how to ask that question?” “Because you answer the other version when you don't want to answer this one.” Dayo laughed once, without humour. Tunde let the silence stay. Finally Dayo said, “I was terrified.” “When Kemi told me?” “Yes.” “I vomited.” Dayo turned his head. “What?” “I went into the toilet and vomited. She thought I had food poisoning.” “You never told me that.”
“I didn't tell anybody. I was happy. I was also completely convinced I was going to ruin a human being.” Dayo's grip tightened on the steering wheel. “What did you do?” “Nothing intelligent. I panicked for a few days. Then Kemi told me I was making my fear her problem.” Dayo went still. “What did you say?” “I defended myself like a fool. Then I apologized.” Traffic moved three metres. Tunde continued, “Fear is not prophecy, Dayo.” “Easy for you to say.” “No. Easy for you to hear. Different thing.” “I have to go.” “Call her.” Dayo ended the call. He drove another twenty minutes before pulling into a petrol station and parking near the air pump. His thumb hovered over Amaka's name. He did not call. Instead he opened the notes app and typed: Lara — 13 months, 3 weeks Bisola — 11 months Nneka — 14 months Amaka — 24 months Four relationships sat in a neat column on the screen. Then added one more line. What changed? He knew the answer.
Amaka had not become less dangerous to love. He had simply loved her enough to stay past the point where fear usually won. The next question was worse. If he loved her enough to stay, why was he leaving now?