It was at night time when Obiyo received the phone call. It was his sister, Amala.

Papa had finally died. It had taken another 30 years from when Obiyo first wished him dead. He had lived too long.

Obiyo listened to Amala’s breath. She held it whenever she said Papa.

Papa had died in his sleep.

Mama was lying next to him, but had been oblivious to his dying.

Papa hadn’t suffered, so that was good.

It hurt Obiyo’s heart that he had not suffered.

Even death was unfair.

Mama has not eaten for three days.

Three days.

It had taken Amala three days to tell Obiyo about Papa’s death.

It was as if he did not love him too.

Everyone was at the house.

Obiyo needed to be there too.

There was no reason for him not to be.

That reason was dead now.

Obiyo belonged at home.

Obiyo once longed to hear those words. “You belong at home.”

To be where his mother lay and see her eyes from across the room.

“Come” was Amala’s final word.

Obiyo held the phone to his ear until he heard the dial tone.

He could not remember exactly what he had said, but he knew that somehow, someway, he had agreed to come.

After ten years of not laying his eyes on his mother, Obiyo was finally going to come face to face with her. Mama Dzigbordi. The thought made his stomach tense.

Obiyo did not know how he would feel, but he wondered whether the anger was still there. He had told himself year after year that he had come to terms with who his mother was. It was the hardest truth he had ever had to accept, and yet, sometimes he doubted his own acceptance.

It was Aya who jolted Obiyo from his daze.

She had come home for lunch and barely stepped into the foyer when their eyes met.

“Obi, what happened?”

Obiyo always wondered how she knew him so well. How she could sense his wellness from a single look.

Padi died.

“Good.”

Obiyo couldn’t help but smile. Yet Aya could see in his eyes, something else.

“How do you feel?”

‘They’ve asked me to come’

“Are you going?” “Do you want me to come with you?”

Obiyo did not know what he wanted. At thirty, he would have gotten on the next flight to Ouagadougou.

Now at 51, he was hesitant to leave Aya and the twins for longer than a few hours.

The boys, who were small for sixteen, had just taken up gardening.

Obiyo enjoyed watching them from the tree house as they carved out rows in the coal-black sand.

“Think about it, and let me know, because you know if you want me there, I’m there.”

That night, Obiyo slept more soundly than he ever had.

In his dreams, he was a child about four years old, sitting on the lap of his grandmother.

All around him, townspeople danced in celebration, chanting Kundum, Kundum, Kundum.