Chapter 1: Old Wounds, New Beginnings

Danjuma come meet me when e still dey wear short knicker, small like groundnut.

Back then, he still dey move with slippers wey bend, always dey peep under my table when hunger wire am. E small but e get eye for trouble. Sometimes, as I dey chop, I go notice small hand dey drag meat from my plate; na Danjuma handiwork be that. Na only God sabi wetin I see for that boy hand. If I catch am, I go shout, "Danjuma, you wan chop person hand join meat?" but e go just laugh, teeth full of soup.

As dem dey always talk, "Half-grown pikin fit chop him papa finish."

True true, if you see as Danjuma dey swallow yam and egusi, you go fear. The boy get appetite wey pass him age. My neighbour go laugh say, "Baba Musa, no let this boy finish your future for pot o!" Sometimes, I go just look am, shake my head. Na so life be.

Luckily, because I dey work for textile factory canteen and sabi cook well, I manage raise am.

The air dey smell of hot oil and fried akara, with pepper soup scent hanging for corner. Even when pepper scarce for market, I fit use crayfish and scent leaf turn leftover to better stew. Factory people sabi my hand, even old men for street dey respect my food. Any time Danjuma dey hungry, na me e dey run meet. Rain or shine, I no let am lack.

Now, e don reach time for am to marry.

Na so years waka fast. My pikin don tall, don dey look for wife. All those aunty wey dey toast am, dem dey parade for house. I dey reason say, time reach to do the right thing as baba.

So that e go fit stand gidigba for him in-law house, I carry the only house wey I get give am.

My hand dey shake as I hand over key—na my sweat, my whole life. No be say I get plenty, but I reason am say, make the boy get confidence. For our side, man wey fit dash pikin house, dem dey respect am. I remember how community dey hail me that day: "Baba Musa, you try!"

But as soon as I give am the house, na so the first thing wey he talk be say make I go dey stay for backyard shed.

I shock! My eye open like torch. For my chest, e be like person pour cold water—shame catch me, but I no fit talk. All the boys for compound come dey look me like say I no get sense. Even for my mind, I dey ask: na so this life be? Person wey you raise go still drive you go back.

Because after many years of carrying heavy pots, my hand dey always shake. And true-true, I no be him real papa.

My hand wey strong before, now dey tremble like leaf for rain. Harmattan breeze dey blow, dust dey enter my eye, but na pain dey make am red. Sometimes, dem go even dey laugh for canteen say, "See as baba hand dey waka." Wetin pain me pass, na say I know say I no carry am for belle, but I try my best.

For him father-in-law front, wey be retired local government chairman, I be disgrace—na stain for him name be that.

That man wey like to show, always dey wear big native, dey use him power intimidate. The day dem do family meeting, na so him clear throat talk, "How you take manage this stepfather matter?"

Even him mama, Mama Jummai, just accept am like that, no talk anything.

She just sigh, tie her wrapper tight, face the other side. For that moment, she no fit look me eye to eye. My chest heavy.

She and me don dey together nearly twenty years.

Twenty good years! Rain beat us, sun dry us. Na only God know wetin we see for this life together. Sometimes, as I dey think am, I go ask myself whether na this same woman I carry hope put for long time.

As I open my eyes again, one canteen worker dey hold small thief for collar dey shout, "Oga, wetin make we do?"

For my ear, the shouting loud like bell. My spirit shake small—e be like old wound dey open. People gather, dey look.

No be Danjuma be that, the same seven-year-old?

As I move close, I see small pikin with dust for him hair, eyes red—just like that day wey everything change. Life fit really turn round, as if you dey watch film wey repeat.