The Anniversary That Broke Me

David stood across the street from his own house for almost twenty minutes. The same white gate he had painted himself last December. The same mango tree where he and Amara had buried a small bottle with a note inside that said "Forever" when they first moved in. The same curtains — cream and brown — that Amara said made the house look warm. Only now, a black Prado was parked in the compound. Tunde's Prado. His best friend's car, in his own compound, at 7:12 in the morning. He had slept under the bridge for three nights. The woman at the gate gave him cold akara and said, "My son, go back and face your demon." Tunde had met him at the bar and lied to his face: "Bros, na you mumu, I no dey follow Amara." And at midnight, David decided he would not die a fool. He took the road he never wanted — the road back to the street that broke him. The man in the black car had offered him a job: "I need a driver who can keep his mouth shut." Now, the house that no longer knows his name. His phone vibrated. It was his mother. "David, where are you? Your wife said you traveled." David's throat was dry. "Mama, I dey for gate." "What gate?" "My own gate." He ended the call. He pushed the small side gate. It was not locked. It never used to be locked in the morning. Inside the compound, the air smelled of fried plantain. Amara's plantain. She only fried plantain on Sundays, when she was happy. The living room door was open. He could hear laughter. Amara's laughter. And Tunde's laughter. The two laughs that had raised him. David's fists tightened. He stepped into the parlor. Amara froze. She was in a short wrapper, her hair packed, holding a spatula. Tunde was on his — David's — three-seater, legs spread, holding David's son, Junior, on his lap. Junior was laughing, planting his small hand on Tunde's beard. For a second, no one breathed. "David?" Amara whispered. The spatula fell. "You... you came back?" Tunde stood up slowly, putting Junior down. His left eye twitched. "My guy! My guy! You don come! We been dey wait you." "Don't." David's voice was low. "Don't call me your guy." Junior ran to him. "Daddy! Daddy! Uncle Tunde buy me new bicycle!" David knelt and hugged his son so tight his chest hurt. "Where is my bicycle, Junior? Where your old bicycle wey Daddy buy?" Junior pointed outside. "Uncle Tunde say that one don old. He throway am." David stood up. He looked at Amara. Really looked at her. "You throw my son's bicycle?" he asked Amara. Amara started crying instantly. "David, no be like that. I fit explain. Tunde just come help us because you disappear. You no dey pick call." "I disappeared?" David laughed. A dry, broken laugh. "Amara, I caught you. On our bed. With him. I saw. You saw me see you. And you still... you still park his car inside?" Tunde stepped forward. "Bros, calm down. No dey do like small pikin for front of pikin. Make we go outside talk man to man. Na me and you." David looked at Tunde. His best friend since secondary school. The same Tunde he borrowed money to start his phone shop. The same Tunde who was his best man at his wedding. "Man to man? Tunde, you sleep with my wife for my house, for my bed, for my son's birthday week, you want make we talk man to man?" Tunde's face changed. The fake smile dropped. "Okay, make I no lie again. Yes, e happen. E don happen. But na you cause am. You no dey house. You no dey give her money. Woman need to chop." The slap came before David could think. Amara screamed. Tunde held his cheek, then