Chapter 3: Broken Pictures, Broken Promises

After Ifedike Okafor finish talk, he just stand up. Security men and assistant clear road, carry am enter motor.

Dem no dey waste time—black SUV, dark glass, coded movement. His PA, one sharp Yoruba guy, dey clear way as if na governor. If you see the respect, you go know Okafor name get weight for Lagos.

I off the TV with shaky hand. Darkness everywhere, only small rechargeable lamp for corner dey shine weak cold light.

Nepalight don disappear since afternoon. That lamp wey I buy for Ojuelegba last year na im dey try fight darkness. Parlour just dey quiet—even cockroach no fit waka.

Na that time I hear one small sob.

Na the kind cry wey pikin dey cry when pain pass her power. The thing cut my heart like blade.

I turn sharp. My small daughter—her face full of tears, she stand there, lost and hurt.

Titi stand barefoot for tiles, her Dora pyjamas one side tear, her nose dey run, but she no fit wipe am. She look me with big, lost eyes.

"Titi?"

As I call her, she rush come hug me like chicken wey run from hawk.

I grab her quick.

Her small arms dey grip my neck, her body warm but dey shake. I feel her heartbeat—fast, like drum.

"Why you never sleep, you dey sneak come downstairs?"

I try smile, but my voice crack. Normally, Titi no dey ever come down unless I call her. Today, her spirit no rest.

Titi hide her wet face for my chest, her small mouth dey shake as she try talk.

She sniff, voice small, "Mummy, why Daddy talk say he no get daughter? If he no get daughter, na who be Titi?"

My heart just pain me.

I freeze, hold her tighter, search for words. My own heartbreak heavy, but I try strong for her. I swallow, rub her back—tears nearly fall again.

Ifedike Okafor dey strict and quiet. Even though he love Titi, he no dey house often, he hardly smile.

He fit buy Titi anything—bicycle, doll, even dog—but he no dey play with her. The love just silent, like rain for midnight.

Titi dey look up to am, but she still dey fear am. Because of that, she dey more sensitive than other children.

Sometimes, she go hold my hand when he enter room. Other pikin go rush their papa, but Titi go hide behind me. I dey always tell her, "Your daddy love you, but he no sabi show am."

As her tears start again, everything I hold inside just burst scatter.

I no dey pretend again. The pain wey I lock inside since just open. My back bend, as if load dey press me down.

I touch her small face, gently wipe her tears.

Her cheeks soft, eyelashes wet. I use wrapper clean her face, then the edge to wipe her nose. I whisper, "My baby, no cry. Mummy dey here."

"Titi, you wan leave here with Mummy?"

Her eyes get small hope. She nod, but fear still dey.

"But where we go go? We go come back house again?"

She dey look round, like say answer dey wall.

I look down, smile. "We no go come back. Here no be our house."

I hold her hand, squeeze am—make she strong. "We go find place wey nobody go talk say you no belong."

I look Titi for eye, talk serious: "Na your Uncle Okafor house be this. We don stay here long, don disturb am enough. Now, time reach to go our own house."

I try talk am simple, but na me I dey convince. I dey tell myself say no be shame to start afresh.

Titi nod, her small voice: "Titi go follow Mummy anywhere."

Her trust na pure thing. Even as world dey fall, she believe say my hand go hold am steady.

"Good girl."

I rub her back, hum small lullaby my mama dey sing—"Orin mama mi." Her body relax.

I carry her go room, kiss her small face.

Her skin dey smell like Johnson baby oil. I hold her well, whisper: "You dey safe. Sleep, my angel."

"Sleep now. Mummy dey here."

I no off light, so she no go fear. I rub her back till she sleep.

Titi sleep quick. Even as she sleep, her hand dey hold my nightgown, like say she no wan make I waka.

My eye fall on photo frame for her bedside. Our only family picture—me, Ifedike, and small Titi.

Na my favorite picture, but now, the memory dey bitter. I touch the frame, remember that day—everybody dey try smile, but tension dey for air.

For the picture, Ifedike sit well, face cold as usual. I hold one-year-old Titi, dey smile, my body lean small towards Ifedike. But he no lean towards me.

I always wish say one day, he go bend come my side. For the picture, na only me dey try close gap.

After Titi sleep, I carry the photo frame, waka quietly leave the room.

I move for corridor like thief, careful make floorboard no creak. Housemaids no dey this side, everywhere quiet.

I cut the picture with my old kitchen scissors—the same one my mama use cut cloth for Ileya. As I separate us, my hand dey shake, but my mind dey clear.

I keep Titi part for her room, but my own, I throw for dustbin. I no need am again.

His voice rise, but pride choke the pain. For the first time, I see fear hide behind that Okafor stone face.