Son and Mother
1398 Words
Damilare sat on the edge of a small wooden stool in his apartment, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed over his phone. Several tabs were open — news headlines, missing person reports, and a half-drafted message he was about to post on social media:
Please, anyone who has seen Amara Nwokedi should contact this number. She was last seen on Tuesday evening wearing a black dress and white sneakers. She means so much to me... please help us find her.
He stared at the words, then slowly tapped “post.”
He exhaled, letting the image of himself as the worried boyfriend settle into the world. He could almost hear the voices of sympathy that would follow. He didn’t do it for them, though. It was for Ada. And for Zainab. Especially Zainab. That one didn’t trust easily.
He needed to play the role right.
But beneath the surface, Damilare felt it. That tight, coiled wire in his chest. The voice that had haunted him since he found her.
You finally have her. Don’t mess this up.
He stood and walked to the corner of his room. A small cabinet. He unlocked the drawer. Inside was a phone—Amara’s phone. Switched off. Her SIM card had been removed and destroyed. He wasn’t stupid.
He pulled out a small picture frame and stared at it—her. The woman in the photograph. Her warm eyes. The same soft curve of her smile Amara had. The woman who had once held him as a child... before tossing him away like a burden.
He remembered everything now. It had taken him years to piece the story together. The orphanage records were useless—his birth name had been changed. But fate had given him a clue. A volunteer worker had taken a photo once. Just one. He had kept it, hidden, wondering. Until his adoptive aunt—a kindly Yoruba woman who had named him Damilare—saw it one evening.
“That woman,” she said slowly, eyes narrowed, “looks familiar.”
And just like that, the trail began.
Months of searching. Social media digging. Names, states, towns. He found her — Ada Nwokedi. A woman with a boutique in town. And her daughter...Amara.
At first, he wasn’t sure. But when he met her during that delivery — the way her face mirrored her — he knew. Blood called to blood. It had to be her.
But this wasn’t revenge. No. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted to understand. Why? Why had she thrown him away?
And Amara? She was just a piece of the puzzle.
A beautiful, perfect piece.
He walked to the door. Then opened the closet behind the curtain. A metal door. A padlock.
He unlocked it and stepped in.
The room smelled like disinfectant and damp wood. She was curled up on the mattress, eyes open now, watching him. Afraid. Dazed.
He crouched beside her.
“Hey,” he said softly, gently brushing her hair from her face. She flinched.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “You’re safe here. I’ll explain everything. You just need to rest.”
Her lips trembled. “Why...?”
He smiled.
“Because, Amara... you and I—we were meant to meet. You’ll see. In time, you’ll understand.”
He stood.
Locked the door again.
And walked away, calm and sure, as the storm inside her began to grow.
---
Later that afternoon, Damilare stood outside Ada’s compound, clutching a nylon bag filled with a few items from the supermarket—bread, some fruits, two tins of custard. He took a deep breath before knocking.
The gate creaked open, and one of the neighbors’ children peeked through. “Uncle, you dey find Amara mama?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
The boy opened the gate, and Damilare walked in slowly, his eyes scanning the compound—the cracked flowerpots, the crooked bench Amara once took selfies on. His stomach twisted.
He knocked softly. Ada opened the door, her wrapper loosely tied, her eyes swollen. She looked like a woman who hadn’t slept in days.
“Good afternoon, ma,” he said, offering a small smile.
Ada blinked in surprise. “Damilare…”
“I just came to check on you. I got some things… nothing much.”
She stepped aside. “Come in, my son. Come in.”
The living room felt emptier now. Like the soul of the house had gone missing with Amara. Damilare placed the nylon bag on the table and glanced at the framed photo on the shelf — Amara, grinning, holding a slice of cake at her last birthday.
Ada sat down slowly, her sigh heavy. “It’s been three days.”
“I know,” Damilare said softly, crouching before her. “And we’re going to find her. I promise you that. I’ll do everything I can.”
Ada looked at him. “You’re such a good boy, Damilare. God bless you. I’m happy you’re here. You’ve been like a son to me.”
He smiled—small, contained. But inside, something cracked.
Like a son to you?
I AM your son.
He held back the lump in his throat and looked away.
“I can help you tidy up a bit,” he offered. “Maybe do the dishes, sweep outside…”
“Are you sure?” Ada asked, already rising. “Zainab and Kamsi helped yesterday.”
“I want to,” he said.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
As he moved to the kitchen, grabbing a broom on the way, he heard her murmuring prayers in the parlor. For Amara. For her safety. For her return.
Every word felt like acid on his skin.
Amara got her prayers. Amara got her hugs. Amara got her protection.
He had gotten nothing.
---
He was washing the few plates in the sink when Zainab walked in.
She leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Her eyes narrowed immediately. She never smiled at him, and today was no different.
“Didn’t know you were doing house chores now,” she said.
Damilare looked over his shoulder. “Anything for Amara’s mom.”
She walked in slowly, the hem of her jeans brushing the tiled floor. Zainab was short and small but had this fierce, unwavering energy. Her round face made her look deceptively sweet, but her eyes — large, round, and piercing — seemed to see too much.
Those eyes. Damilare hated them.
I’ve always hated this girl.
Especially those bulging round eyes — like two headlights searching through my soul.
Always looking, always judging.
Zainab moved closer, arms still crossed. “So... you said Amara told you she was going to hang out with us?”
“Yes.” He didn’t look at her.
“She didn’t.”
Damilare paused mid-rinse. “What?”
“She didn’t hang out with us. She told you that, but not us. That means you were the last person she spoke to.”
Damilare turned now, slowly, careful to keep his expression neutral. “I didn’t say I saw her. I said she told me.”
“Uh huh.” Zainab tilted her head. “And what time did she tell you that?”
“Around 2 p.m. She said she’d catch up with her friends first, then we’d meet.”
Zainab stared at him, lips pressed into a thin line. “Strange. Because she didn’t text or call any of us.”
He shrugged. “Maybe she changed her mind.”
“Or maybe she never planned to meet us at all.”
Her voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp. A needle wrapped in silk.
Damilare placed the final plate on the rack, wiped his hands slowly.
“I want her back too, Zainab,” he said. “Whatever you’re insinuating…”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” she cut in, stepping closer. “I’m just observing.”
He held her gaze. Something flickered in his eyes. Then he smiled — not wide, not genuine, but smooth.
“You’ve always had a wild imagination.”
“And you’ve always had something to hide.”
She left the room without another word.
Damilare stood there, heart thudding behind his ribs.
I should have done something about her too.
But not yet.
He couldn’t afford mistakes.
Not now.
- Writer
