Chapter 2: Ties That Bind
On the day I came back, Tunde took time off from his office at the ministry to receive me.
He stood two steps away, his tone calm as he spoke about the past.
The air in the parlour was heavy with the scent of fried plantain, and somewhere in the background, the generator hummed—a constant reminder of our city life. "Bola is just like you now. But recently, she’s been learning painting from Aunty Kemi, so she couldn’t come to greet you."
"As for Dayo, he..."
He paused.
"He was still very small when you left. Now, he doesn’t even remember what you look like."
Bola is my eldest daughter; Dayo, my second son.
When I fell from the hill, Bola was three, Dayo only a year old. It’s not strange that he doesn’t remember me.
Talking about the children, my heart softened.
The ache of lost time pressed down on me—five years gone, my babies now strangers to me. During these years, I lost my memory, Tunde remarried, and I too married someone else.
There was no need to go back.
But I could never let go of my children.
Tunde lowered his voice. "You must have heard. Four years ago, I remarried."
I turned to look at him.
When he mentioned the new wife, his face became gentle, his eyes and brows showing a soft tenderness.
"Morayo isn’t like you. She came into the family later, her background is humble, she’s frail and timid. If she makes mistakes, I hope you’ll be understanding."
Just then, Morayo entered quietly, her eyes lowered. She greeted, "E kaaro, ma," her voice barely above a whisper.
Every word from Tunde was to defend Morayo.
I was stunned for a moment, then replied softly,
"Why would I make things hard for her?"
They are a peaceful couple, and I have my own husband now.
If not for the children still in the Tunde household,
I wouldn’t have returned.
The heavy truth sat between us, unspoken. Sometimes, the dust of old stories never fully settles.