Cursed Daughters by Oyinkan Braithwaite - 91

She was lying down listening to Little Simz’s ‘Hello, Hi’, when she heard a light knock on her bedroom door, then two more – a little beat. Not in the style of the women in the house, when they bothered to knock at all. Sango raised his head, and then lowered it again – so not a stranger.

‘Come in.’

The door opened and revealed Osagie. He filled the whole frame. She was surprised to see him, but perhaps she shouldn’t have been. He seemed like a kind man; he would want to say goodbye.

She looked at him with the eyes of a daughter – noting the things about him that she had not cared about before, checking for herself in him. She watched his gait – he covered a lot of space, but his movements seemed slow; the way he flexed his hands, the way he spoke – the gentleness and purposefulness. He was the missing part of a picture that was her being, the twenty-three chromosomes she’d never known. She wasn’t just a Yoruba girl any more; Osagie was Edo, so that made her Edo and Yoruba. Did he speak his language? She knew so little.

She didn’t expect to find similarities; she was, after all, Mo’s double. But perhaps there was something there, in his sidelong glance, and the way she could tell he thought a million thoughts before saying what was on his mind. Or maybe she was only seeing what she wanted to see. He gave her one of his easy crooked smiles.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

‘No.’ She gestured at her stool and desk. He steered clear of the massive dog staring at him with yellow eyes as he approached the desk. He sat on the stool and it disappeared beneath him. He was wearing a dark green short-sleeved linen kaftan, his arms riddled with milk-coloured splotches. She wondered if it had been difficult for him to move through life with such a unique physical trait. She thought about the ways her life might have been different if the condition had left a greater impression on her body.

He cleared his throat. ‘So … genetic counselling?’

‘Yea.’

‘I’ve … It sounds interesting …’

‘You don’t know what it is, do you?’

He laughed. ‘No idea. But if you don’t mind enlightening me …’

She didn’t mind. She leant forward and told him why she wanted to do it. She gave him examples of what families went through, the fears, the uncertainty; not unlike her own. And he listened, occasionally interrupting her to ask questions. As she spoke to him, it occurred to her that she had never had this conversation with her mother or her grandmothers. They wanted her to do well, she knew that; but their ambient concern did not translate to genuine interest.

‘Well, we know you didn’t get your brains from me.’ He laughed at himself, but she wasn’t able to join him. The man before her was her father. She had a father. What did people do with those? And she was twenty-five; perhaps she didn’t need one any more. As if he was reading her thoughts, he said: ‘I … This fatherhood thing has obviously come as a surprise. But a good surprise. I don’t want you to feel pressure. I would like a relationship with you, but I know you Gen Z people care a lot about boundaries.’

He wasn’t here to say goodbye. She felt a knot in her chest untie. She hadn’t even known she wanted him to stay, but her relief that he was was undeniable. Whatever he felt about what her mother had done, despite the fact that he found himself with an adult child, he wanted to give the thing a go.

‘I think everyone cares about … boundaries.’

‘Yes. You are right. And I want you to be comfortable. If you want to talk to me, or spend time with me, I will give you my number, call any time. Your mum told me you got a UK job. And I was planning to be in the UK in the next three months. If you are fine with it, I would be happy to come and visit you at your job. And if you like o, I have a small place you can stay at; it’s empty most of the time. You would be doing me a favour. I don’t have tenants there, so the place is just running up costs.’

He was saying a lot, the words tripping over themselves in their hurry to get out. He was nervous, and she felt a somewhat abstract distance from it all. As if she were watching this interaction from outside of herself. He was easy to be around, to warm to; but it could all be an illusion.

‘I wasn’t sure … I don’t know that I can go. There’s visa stuff, and I have already taken so long to respond.’

‘Let me help you …’

‘I … I don’t know much about you, except that you’re in the air force.’

‘I am the middle child of three boys. I never married. I have a little outfit that distributes water to homes as my side hustle. My favourite colour is red. Ask me anything, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.’

‘Anything?’

‘Anything.’

‘Your arms are usually covered up. Are you self-conscious about …’

‘The vitiligo? I was as a boy. I wore long-sleeved shirts round the clock to avoid exposing them. But these days I consider it to be my unique selling point.’ He laughed at himself. ‘The long sleeves are now just a military habit that’s hard to shake. Any other questions?’

‘Do you think you will be able to forgive her?’

‘Who? Your mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think so. Eventually. How about you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

He smiled again; this one was smaller, less crooked. She was learning he had different smiles for different emotions. He shrugged. ‘I don’t like the unilateral choice she made. She denied me a chance to be involved in my daughter’s life. I must admit, I am more than a little angry; but she raised you, and I think she did a hell of a job. You are sharp, thoughtful, kind and confident; everything I would have wanted my daughter to be. God works in mysterious ways, yes?’ He stood up, groaning as he did, and cracked his back. ‘This stool is for you young people.’

‘I … I don’t know what to call you …’

‘I guess Dad would be too weird?’

She tried the word, and it stuck in her mouth. It felt unfamiliar and awkward. She barely knew this man and the word itself was foreign to her. She recalled all the times she had needed a dad, and she couldn’t help but feel a little anger towards him, even though she was acutely aware that none of this was his fault. But still, his spirit should have whispered to him that he had progeny.

‘Maybe, someday?’

‘Okay.’ He hummed as he thought of a suitable alternative. ‘What about Oba?’

‘Oba?’

‘Yea. It’s a title, so less … intimate. And that’s what I used to go by when I was younger.’

‘Oba.’