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Amara waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Then she got out and walked to the house.
The front door was locked, but Amara still had her old key.
Her hand shook as she placed it in the lock.
Click.
It still worked.
She pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.
The house smelled different now.
It smelled of cooking, soap, and something sweet. It smelled like people lived there.
Like a home.
The living room had changed completely. The old dusty furniture was gone. There was a simple brown sofa, colorful Ankara pillows, a wooden coffee table with crayons and coloring books.
On the walls were drawings.
A house.
A mango tree.
A smiling sun.
A stick-figure man holding hands with a stick-figure girl.
No woman.
Amara’s throat tightened.
In the kitchen, dishes dried by the sink.
Two plates.
Two spoons.
Two cups.
One big.
One small.
Everything was clean but old and worn.
The refrigerator hummed loudly, as if fighting to stay alive. Inside were a small bag of rice, some tomatoes, a few eggs, two sachets of milk, and a bottle of groundnut oil that was almost empty.
Not much.
Just enough.
On the counter sat a tin with coins and a few naira notes. Amara counted it.
Twelve thousand four hundred naira.
That was all.
Her stomach twisted.
She had millions sitting untouched in her accounts, and the man she had loved, the man she had mourned, was raising her child on almost nothing.
She went upstairs.
The first bedroom, once hers, was now Zara’s room.
There was a small bed with a faded pink bedsheet, more drawings taped to the walls, a few toys arranged carefully on a shelf, a doll with one arm missing, a plastic tea set, and a teddy bear that had been stitched many times.
Everything was old.
But everything was loved.
On the desk were school papers.
Amara picked one up.
Zara Mensah. Primary Two. Mathematics Test: 92%. Excellent work.
Mensah.
Amecha’s surname.
Not Okafor.
Zara did not even know Amara existed.
Amara put the paper down and went to the next room.
Amecha’s room.
The bed was narrow. The mattress thin. The blanket old. There was a small wardrobe with a cracked mirror.
On top of the wardrobe stood a photo frame.
A baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, sleeping peacefully.
Next to the frame was an exercise book. On the cover, in Amecha’s careful handwriting, were the words:
Important Papers.
Amara knew she should not open it.
But her hands moved anyway.
Inside were bills.
Hospital bills. Clinic receipts. Medicine costs. School fees paid in installments. Page after page.
Some were stamped PAID.
Others were marked STILL OWING or BEG FOR EXTENSION.
Tears burned Amara’s eyes.
While she had been eating in restaurants where one meal cost fifty thousand naira, Amecha had been here, working and struggling, raising their daughter alone.
At the back of the book, she found a brown envelope.
Inside was a birth certificate.
Name: Zara Amara Mensah
Date of Birth: September 22, 2019
Mother: Amara Okafor
Father: Amecha Mensah
Amara sat on the bed.
Her body felt heavy.
Zara Amara Mensah.
He had given their daughter her name as a middle name.
Even after everything.
Even after believing she had abandoned them.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
The room gave no answer.
Then she heard the front door open downstairs.
Her heart jumped.
“Zara, wash your hands before snack time,” Amecha called.
“Daddy, can I have the chin-chin Auntie Grace made?”
“Just a small bowl. We need to save some for tomorrow.”
Footsteps came up the stairs.
Small, fast footsteps.
Zara reached the top and froze.
She saw Amara.
Her eyes widened in fear.
“Daddy!” she screamed. “Daddy, she’s here! The woman from yesterday is in our house!”
Amecha ran up the stairs.
When he saw Amara, anger and terror filled his face.