I had never seen Aunt Clara cry before. The first time I did was the day she sold the bakery.
It had always been there, on the corner of Adebayo Street, with the same wooden sign she painted herself twenty-five years ago. “Sweet Haven.” A lot of people found the name weird but it didn't matter. The product exceeded expectation.
The shelves were almost empty when I walked in that morning. There were only a few loaves left, hardening in the heat. Aunt Clara sat behind the counter, staring at nothing.
“You’re really going through with it?” I asked.
She looked up slowly, her eyes red. “What else should I do, Daniel? You want me to fight the bank?”
I didn’t know what to tell her at that point. I wanted to tell her yes, fight, but I knew she couldn’t. Not after the debts, not after Uncle’s hospital bills.
Still, it felt wrong. “It won’t be the same without you,” I muttered.
She gave a dry laugh. “It hasn’t been the same in years. Customers go to supermarkets now. Who wants to buy from an old woman’s oven?”
I leaned on the counter. “I do.”
“Don’t be sentimental,” she said. “It’s bad for business.”
My cousin, Ifeoma, came in later that day. She walked in with anger written all over her face. Dropped her backpack on the floor and protested. “Mum, you promised we’d keep it. You promised!”
Aunt Clara rubbed her forehead. “Ifeoma, please. Not today.”
“You don’t even care! You’re just giving up.”
“I care enough to let go before the whole thing buries me.” The silence that followed was heavy. I wanted to disappear, but Ifeoma’s anger filled the room like smoke.
“You always say family matters more than money,” she shouted.
Aunt Clara slammed her hand on the counter. “And family will matter more when the debts stop choking me!”
Ifeoma’s lips trembled on the spot. She could no longer control her emotions. She picked her back angrily and stormed out of the store, and deliberately hit the bell above the door. “She’ll hate me for this.” Aunt Clara said. "But she would one day understand that I had no choice."
The last customers trickled in around sunset. Old Mr. Bello came for his usual two loaves. He looked around the empty shelves and frowned.
“You’re closing?”
“Yes,” Aunt Clara said quietly.
He sighed. “Ah. Another piece of the neighborhood gone.” He paid and left without saying anything more. His silence spoke volumes.
When the shop was empty again, Aunt Clara picked up a loaf, broke it in half, and handed me a piece. “Eat. Last batch.”
It was warm, soft in the middle, a little burnt on the edges — exactly how I remembered it as a child. For a moment I almost forgot why we were sitting in an empty bakery.
That night, we locked up together.
Aunt Clara turned the key slowly, as if it hurt her hand. She didn’t cry this time.
“You’ll come tomorrow?” she asked.
“What for?”
“To help pack. You think I can carry ovens alone?”
I smiled faintly. “I’ll come.”
She nodded and left without looking back. I stayed put, staring at the old, worn-out sign and letting the memories run through my head. “Sweet Haven.” I thought about Ifeoma, about how angry she was, and about how right she might be. Some places shouldn’t be allowed to die so quietly.
I went there with Aunt Clara a week later and there was nothing left. The bakery had been dismantled. The ovens were gone, the shelves, dismantled, the walls bare, without the sweet smell it once had, but smelled of dust. Aunt Clara signed the final papers with the buyers, her hand shaking slightly.
Ifeoma didn’t come.
When we left, Aunt Clara locked the door one last time. She pressed the spare key into my hand. “Keep it,” she said.
“What for?”
“Memory.”
I stared at the cold metal which had been pressed against my palm. “That’s all that’s left?”
She smiled faintly. “Sometimes memory is enough.”
I agreed, but honestly I wasn’t sure what I believed. On the way home, there was this boy in front of us, holding a nylon bag with supermarket bread inside. He just ripped it open right there on the street, biting into it without even looking. Chewed like it didn’t matter. And I kept thinking, it probably tastes the same as every other bread you can buy anywhere. Nothing special.
Sweet Haven had never been like that. And now it never would be again.
