Chapter 1: Surulere Queen Turn Stranger

Sun dey shine like say e wan roast person for Surulere.

E get autism.

For Naija, if person get autism, e fit mean say you go dey look am, e go dey look you back, but inside the eye, wahala dey. The day I force myself kiss am, Somto no even struggle, e just carry him eyes—those sharp, red eyes—like when pepper enter eye for harmattan—look me like say I be total stranger. No single sound commot from him mouth. Sometimes I go wonder wetin dey run through that him mind as e dey stare me down, but the answer no dey ever show for surface, na deep river e be.

When I keep am like say na my private canary, the only thing wey e dey do na to dey sob quietly, like rain wey dey fall for zinc roof wey nobody dey hear.

That sobbing e dey do, no be the kind wey loud or full of wahala—na soft, hidden tears wey only person wey care to look fit notice. Many times, e go curl inside chair, head down, and I go dey ask myself why my own heart still dey pain me when na me dey do am anyhow. But as per Naija pikin, I no go gree show weakness, so I go just bone face, dey pretend say e no move me.

We both hate each other reach bone.

Na hatred wey pure pass ogogoro, sharp like pepper. If you see as we dey eye each other for house, even househelp dey avoid our side. Yet, the hatred no dey ever settle my mind well. Sometimes, I dey wonder whether na pain or love dey push all these wahala, but I no go let that thought stay long. For this life, everybody get their own cross carry, na my own be this.

Generator hum dey vibrate for compound, the faint smell of kerosene just dey hang for air. But one harmattan night, much later, I just late come house by two hours.

Harmattan breeze that night fit peel skin. I wear thick wrapper but cold still dey enter bone. I run small, chop traffic, so na two hours late I reach gate. Even gate man dey shiver, eye dey check time, dey wonder why madam never come. For that short time wey I no dey, something change for house wey I no expect.

Within that short time, e call me tire.

For the silent, unanswered voice notes, he dey repeat awkwardly, over and over:

'Titi, Titi, abeg, come... come back...'

The voice note sweet me and pain me at the same time. For Somto to dey call my name like that—na rare thing. I just press play, listen, then press am again, over and over, like person wey dey search for something wey e no understand. Sometimes for Naija, na when you absent dem go notice your true value.