The morning light crept in gently through the curtains. Sun rays crept into my bedroom, casting a warm glow. I lay there, unmoving, the letter clutched loosely in my hand. I'd fallen asleep holding it, the edges now soft and crumpled from how many times I'd unfolded and refolded it. Mama's handwriting stared back at me, even in sleep, ringing in my mind non-stop.
I blinked slowly, as if waking up in a different world. Maybe I had. Everything had changed. And yet... everything looked the same. The small bookshelf still stood beside my bed, with the copy of Ijapa tales Mama used to read to me when I couldn't sleep. My slippers were still crooked at the foot of the bed, and the little crack in the ceiling still traced the same faint pattern of lightning. But I had changed. Or maybe I had just been revealed. The thought alone made my stomach twist.
I sat up slowly, my body sore from sleeping in the fetal position all night. The silence of the house felt heavier today. Papa was already gone. Of course, he was. He hadn't slept much either. I remembered the way his hands had shaken last night, how small he'd looked when he said, "I'd choose you again a thousand times." A part of me believed him. A deeper part still wasn't sure how to process it all.
I climbed out of bed, padding across the room to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me - same brown eyes, same unruly curls (I hadn't had time to make my hair), same mole just above my lip. But the question hung like fog: Whose eyes are these, really? I touched the mirror gently, as though the glass might ripple and give me an answer.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. I made tea like Mama used to - three spoons of Milo, two spoons of milk, and my special mixture of lime and honey. I hadn't done that in years. It used to be our thing. We'd sip together, pinkies raised, laughing at how "fancy" we were. Funny how grief works. I thought I was over her sudden death. One letter, and suddenly all the old memories came back like ghosts asking to be remembered.
I sat at the kitchen table and stared out the window. The garden was blooming with hibiscus flowers, the ones Mama planted the year I turned ten. I liked how they swayed in the breeze like dancers. I could almost hear her voice whispering, "Learn to see beauty in yourself as you see the beauty in these flowers." She knew I adored them. I swallowed hard and took another sip.
My phone buzzed on the counter. I ignored it at first. I wasn't ready for the outside world. Not yet. But it buzzed again. Then a third time. I walked over slowly and picked it up. Aunt Ife. A missed call. A voicemail. Then a text: "Call me when you're ready. He told me." I stared at the message for a while. He told her. Of course. Papa would've called her last night after I went to bed. He always turned to her when he couldn't figure things out. She was Wumi's sister, older by five years, and the only person who could talk sense into either of them when things got messy.
I hesitated, then typed back: "Can I come by today?" Her reply was instant. "I'll put the kettle on."
As I said, Papa had gone to work, so I had to board a motorcycle. The drive to Aunt Ife's felt both too long and too short. The streets blurred past me as the strong breeze made my eyes cloudy. It was typical Lagos - noise, hassle, and struggle. Thankfully, I didn't have to go through any form of traffic; her house was nearby and it was a residential area.
I couldn't stop my fingers from clutching my bag every time a new question floated into my head. Why didn't she tell me sooner? Did Mama ever try to find the woman who left me? Was it really just coincidence that Papa found me that night?
As the "bike man" pulled into the familiar street, I got my transport fare ready. "Madam, where's the place?" he asked as he slowed down. I pointed at the bungalow with the red roof. He stopped soon after, and I got down, handing the 500 naira note to him. He muttered a thank you and zoomed off.
I called my Aunt as I approached the black gate. Soon, she opened the gate with a weak smile on her face. The front porch looked exactly the same - terracotta pots brimming with basil and mint, her old rocking chair swaying gently in the wind.
I stepped out, clutching the letter in my jacket pocket like a shield. She led me to the door. HerHer eyes were soft and filled with guilt. "My girl," she said quietly. I stepped into the house. The moment she closed the door, I reached into her arms before I could even think. She held me tight, one hand cradling the back of my head like Mama used to do. We didn't speak for a long time.
Inside, the scent of lemon tea and ginger cookies filled the air. She guided me to the couch and poured us each a cup. No questions. No pressure. Just warmth.
Finally, she spoke. "He told you everything?" I nodded. "Almost everything. I think." She nodded back, eyes thoughtful. "Your mother, Wumi, she made us all promise. No matter what. You were her daughter, full stop."
"But she wrote me a letter," I whispered, pulling it out. "She wanted me to know." "She did," Aunt Ife said softly. "But only when the time was right. And... well, death has its own timing."
I stared down at the tea in my hands. "Did you ever think it was wrong? Keeping it from me?" She sighed and nodded. "Yes. Sometimes. But it wasn't about right or wrong. It was about love. She was afraid that if you knew too early, you'd start seeing holes in the love she gave you. And there were no holes, child. None. She loved you more than I've ever seen anyone love."
I wiped a tear from my cheek. "I believe that. But I still have questions." "That's okay," she said. "You're allowed to."
I hesitated. "Do you know anything about where I came from? The night Papa found me?" Aunt Ife shook her head slowly. "Only what he told us. A baby in a basket. No name. No note. Just... you."
I wanted to be angry. I wanted someone to blame. But all I could feel was the ache of not knowing. The missing puzzle piece I never knew I needed until now.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Have you talked to the pastor?" "Not yet." "He might remember something. Even the smallest thing could help." I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Maybe I will."
"Aunt Ife," I said. "Yes, child," she replied, pulling me to herself. "Where is Sister Tomi? Isn't she back? And Deolu…he should be home now, we're on break." She looked at me, smiling. "You miss them. Well, Tomi went to the market, she got back yesterday, and as for Deolu, he went to driving school."
"Deolu is learning to drive? Wow. He'll have to teach me," I said. She only nodded. We didn't speak again; we just cuddled while watching a movie.
Soon, it was time to go home. As I stepped out of the house, with Aunt right behind me, I saw Deolu walking in. He smiled when he saw me. "Hey, Coz, how are you doing?" I nodded and stepped forward to embrace him. His hug was warm. Comforting. Almost sad. He knew.
"Your father is outside. He's waiting for you. You should hurry up." I smiled, then I waved. I stepped out of the gate and entered the vehicle. I greeted my Dad, and he nodded in acknowledgment. He drove in silence, and I occupied myself with my thoughts. I had a lot on my mind, and I needed time to think. One thing was sure.
I would look for the Pastor.