Fractures
713 Words
It was late afternoon when Amara found herself sitting by the railings near the quiet side of the campus, legs swinging gently, the warm breeze teasing strands of hair across her face. She had texted Damilare to meet her there. Something was bothering her—not just the rumor Zainab shared—but something deeper, something unspoken between them.
He arrived five minutes later, as calm as ever, holding a small paper bag.
“What’s that?” she asked as he settled beside her.
“A little something,” he said, handing it over.
Inside was a delicate silver necklace. Dangling from it was a small musical note pendant.
Amara blinked. “You remembered I sing?”
He gave a small smile. “Some things stick.”
She turned the pendant in her fingers, unsure of what to say. “It’s... beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the rustling of trees filling the space between them.
“Can I ask you something?” Amara said softly, her eyes still on the pendant.
“Anything,” he replied.
“You never talk about your family.”
His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted.
“That’s because there’s not much to say.”
She looked at him. “Tell me anyway.”
He was quiet for a while. Then, his voice low, he said, “I grew up in an orphanage. Somewhere in Enugu. I don’t even remember the first few years. One day I was with a woman I thought was my aunt. Then she left. Dropped me off at a mission home. I stayed there until I was seventeen.”
Amara blinked. “You never met your parents?”
He shook his head. “No father. As for my mother… they said she abandoned me. Just vanished. No notes, no calls. Just gone.”
Amara felt a knot form in her stomach. “That’s horrible.”
He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “You know what’s worse? I still want to see her. I still dream of looking her in the eye and asking, Why? What did I do?”
Amara reached for his hand without thinking. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Damilare looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Maybe not. But kids think everything is their fault. Even the silence.”
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The pain in his voice felt too raw to touch.
---
Later that evening, Amara was lounging on the couch, aimlessly scrolling through her phone, when Ada’s voice called from the kitchen.
“Amara! This fan is sparking again o!”
Amara glanced at the dusty standing fan in the corner. “I told you we need a new one!”
“I’m not made of money,” Ada retorted. “Call that boy—your friend. The one that fixed the light last time.”
“Damilare?”
“Yes, the polite one. He’s useful.”
Within the hour, Damilare arrived. His sleeves were rolled, a small tool pouch in hand. Ada stood over him for the first five minutes but eventually left him to his work.
Fifteen minutes later, the fan was humming quietly.
“You try well well,” Ada said, wiping her hands on her wrapper. “You go make a good husband.”
“Mummy!” Amara groaned from the hallway.
“What? I’m just saying the truth.”
Damilare chuckled, ducking his head. “Thank you, ma.”
When Ada disappeared into the kitchen, Amara turned to him. “You’re really collecting points these days.”
He shrugged. “I like helping.”
She smiled faintly. But in her heart, the story he shared earlier still echoed. The boy abandoned. The boy still searching.
---
That night, as Amara lay on her bed, fingers tracing the pendant around her neck, her thoughts spiraled.
Zainab’s warning… the necklace… his pain… her mother’s affection for him… it all stirred inside her like smoke with no fire.
And yet, one question refused to leave her:
Why did he never mention his last name?
She closed her eyes and pressed the necklace to her chest.
She didn’t know why… but something inside her was afraid to ask.
- Writer
