The Photograph

The message remained unanswered.

Not because Tosan didn’t want to reply.

Because he was no longer looking at the screen.

He was staring through the windshield.

Trying to hold onto a memory that kept slipping away.

A photograph.

A pair of eyes.

A feeling.

Nothing else.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Why does she feel familiar?

When he opened them again, the memory was gone.

Completely.

Leaving him feeling foolish.

He looked down at his phone and finally typed:

I got home safely. Thanks.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Tosan found himself smiling.

Good. Lagos roads can be wicked at night.

He laughed softly.

The conversation continued for another hour.

Nothing dramatic.

No declarations of love.

No impossible connection.

Just two people talking.

And somehow, that made it even harder to stop.

The next morning, Tosan arrived late to work.

Not because of traffic.

Because he had slept at almost 2 a.m.

His colleague, Dami, took one look at him and dropped her handbag on his desk.

“You met somebody.”

Tosan frowned.

“Good morning to you too.”

“You met somebody.”

“What kind of accusation is this?”

“You have that face.”

“What face?”

“The face men make when one woman has suddenly become more important than their future.”

Tosan laughed despite himself.

“You need help.”

Dami folded her arms.

“So what’s her name?”

“Tosan.”

“That’s not her name.”

He shook his head and returned to his laptop.

Unfortunately, the smile on his face betrayed him.

That evening, his mother called.

As usual, she didn’t waste time.

“When are you coming to visit?”

Tosan leaned back on his sofa.

“Good evening, Mummy.”

“I greeted you already.”

“You didn’t.”

“I greeted you in my heart.”

Tosan laughed.

“Mummy.”

“I’m serious. It’s been three weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Everybody in Lagos is busy.”

She paused.

Then her voice softened.

“Your father has been asking about you.”

The smile faded slightly.

His relationship with his father had never been simple.

Not hostile.

Just… distant.

The older man rarely spoke about emotions.

Rarely explained himself.

Rarely opened doors into his past.

“Tell him I’ll come this weekend,” Tosan said.

“Good.”

A brief silence followed.

Then his mother asked casually,

“How is work?”

“Fine.”

“And your social life?”

Tosan groaned.

“Mummy.”

“What?”

“You’ve entered your real topic.”

She laughed.

“I’m only asking.”

“Mummy.”

“Okay, okay.”

But he knew she wasn’t done.

Not even close.

On Saturday afternoon, Tosan drove to his parents’ house in Ikeja.

The compound looked exactly as he remembered.

The mango tree.

The faded flower pots.

The blue gate his father refused to repaint because it was “still doing its job.”

His mother welcomed him with enough food to feed a wedding reception.

His father emerged later from the backyard.

“You’re looking thin.”

That was his version of affection.

Tosan smiled.

“Good to see you too, Dad.”

The older man nodded.

Then sat down.

For a while, conversation flowed easily.

Work.

Politics.

Football.

The usual subjects.

Until Tosan’s mother disappeared into her room and returned carrying an old photo album.

“Look what I found while cleaning.”

Tosan rolled his eyes.

“Mummy, not again.”

But she was already turning pages.

Family birthdays.

Christmas celebrations.

School graduations.

Then suddenly…

Tosan stopped.

A photograph near the middle of the album.

His smile vanished.

His heartbeat quickened.

Because staring back at him from the page was a young woman.

And although the picture was old…

Although the hairstyle was different…

Although decades had passed…

The eyes were unmistakable.

Tosan looked up sharply.

“Who is this?”

His mother froze.

Across the room, his father’s face changed.

Just for a second.

But Tosan saw it.

And whatever story was attached to that photograph…

Neither of his parents wanted to talk about it.

To be continued…