Damilare
608 Words
The door closed behind him with a dull click, shutting out the world and its noise. Damilare walked across the small, dimly lit apartment, kicked off his shoes, and reached straight for the shelf above his desk.
There it was — the photograph.
Framed in old wood, slightly worn at the corners, The woman who had left him behind.
She was younger in this photo — fewer lines, no gray hair, still full of life. He had studied every crease, every corner of her expression, wondering what kind of mother could smile like that and still walk away from a child.
His fingers brushed the edge of the frame.
She had given him life. And then, she disappeared. The image had become an anchor in his life. He didn’t always know who she was. Not at first. He didn’t know her name. He never spoke it aloud. But he knew her face. Every line, every freckle. The softness in her eyes, the shape of her lips. Her smile — serene, distant, almost cruel in its warmth.
He stared at the picture, thumb brushing the glass. “Why?” he whispered, not expecting an answer. “What did I do that was so wrong?”
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He never had real memories of her. Only flashes — a warm lap, the faint scent of shea butter and soap, and a lullaby he could no longer hum. He remembered being held. And then not.
The rest of his childhood was filled with strange arms, echoing halls, the strict discipline of the mission home in Enugu.
Until a woman came. A Yoruba widow who volunteered at the orphanage.
She was the first to look at him with something close to care. She took him in. Gave him food, gave him warmth, and gave him a name 'Damilare'.
"The one vindicated by God."
He had clung to the name like armor.
But as he grew, so did the ache. He wanted to know where he came from. Who had left him. Why he had been left.
He asked his adoptive aunt questions. She gave what little she had. The records were blurry, but one day, by what could only be called fate, an envelope fell from one of her old record books. Inside was the photograph.
No name. No note. Just a woman with gentle eyes and a red blouse.
His search began.
He showed the picture to a nurse who had worked in Awka, to a tailor in Nsukka who once lived in Nnewi. He followed every hint, every whisper, until someone gave him a name. And then an address. And finally… a face to match the photo.
On a fateful evening, he traced the address. She ran a small tailoring shop. She was older now — fuller, stronger. But it was her.The woman from the photograph.
She had a daughter. A university student. Nineteen. Bright, warm, constantly with her phone, always smiling at the screen.
He had watched them — mother and daughter — through the glass window of the shop. Laughing.
He stood there in the rain, soaked to the bone.
That was the first time he saw her — the girl.
And something inside him broke.
He didn’t approach right away.
He waited.
Watched.
Planned.
When he saw the girl — her daughter — open the door to receive a delivery, he smiled.
Fate had brought him here.
It was only a matter of time now.
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He placed the photo back on the shelf.
He didn’t hate her.
But he wasn’t finished with her either.
The world had played its game with him. Now, it was his move.
- Writer
