On the same evening that Aisha discovered the paper, it began to rain.
Not heavy rain. Only the lazy Lagos variety which made danfo drivers angry, and made the dust on the road black mud.
It was at the small shop of her mother in Surulere where she was putting Peak milk tins on the shelves when NEPA restored its lights.
“Ah-ah! Not again," mom complained from the back room.
Aisha laughed softly. "Perhaps they wish to get some rest early today."
Her mother didn't speak. She rarely laughed at jokes anymore, since her father left her 4 years ago.
The shop fell silent with the only sounds being the sound of the rain beating on the zinc roof.
One day, Aisha was bending down to retrieve a carton from under the counter when she saw a little piece of paper folded in the corner close to the wall. Old. Dirty. Is crumpled as if stepped on many times.
She was about to discard it.
However, there was a date that caught her eye.
June 18th.
Her birthday.
She slowly spread it out.
It was a receipt for Sweet Delight Bakery, Yaba. One chocolate cake. Small size. Paid in cash.
The date was from three years ago.
Aisha frowned.
“Mommy,” she called. “Were there cakes purchased that year?”
“No money for cake,” her mother promptly responded.
Aisha glanced at the paper again. On the bottom was a name hastily scrawled in blue ink.
Kunle.
Her father’s name.
Her chest tightened.
This was his first birthday since he went missing.
No goodbye. No explanation. One morning he was going to work and didn't come back.
There were lots of comments made after that.
“He's most likely gotten hitched to another girl.”
“Men are wicked.”
"He may have gone to another country surreptitiously."
After a year, her mom began to defend his right to privacy.
Aisha was very careful to fold the receipt back up and took it out of her pocket.
The night passed and sleep wouldn't come.
She recalled that on that birthday she sat by the gate, as if she were not there. Her friends had published cakes on the Internet. Her mother, stoic and silent, prepared rice. About 8 p.m., a cake box was dropped off by a dispatch rider.
No name.
No message.
Her mother believed that it was sent by one of the members of the church.
But Aisha was not sure.
The following morning, she got in a bus to Yaba before her mother woke up.
There still remained a bakery next to a pharmacy. A bit smaller than she recalled.
There was the aroma of warm bread inside.
At the counter she was greeted by a little girl. “Good morning.”
Aisha carefully took out the receipt. “Please… anyone here remember this?”
The girl shook her head no. "It is from the beginning of this year."
Suddenly, an old woman in the back, adjusting her glasses, walked in front.
“Let me see.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Ah,” said she in low voice. “Kunle.”
Aisha's throat went as dry as a bone. “You know him?”
The woman carefully studied her face before she spoke.
“You're the same look you have as him.”
Aisha started to squeeze the counter even tighter.
“Where is he?”
The woman hesitated. I don't know now, but he used to come very frequently.
“Often?”
The woman slowly nodded her head.
“Each and every June 18th, she was the same cake.”
Aisha momentarily lost track of the sound of generators out the window.
"What do you mean each year?"
The woman said, “He stayed for four years. A quiet man, always in a face cap!
Aisha's voice mumbled. “Did he say why?”
The woman sighed.
I asked him one day why he never was delivering the cake himself. She paused. He has told me that if she sees him, she will hate him.
Aisha stared.
“No,” she whispered. “How can that be?”
The woman went under the counter and pulled out a diary.
He left a number one time for the case of delay in delivery.
She turned through the pages slowly.
Then stopped.
Aisha's heart was pounding as the woman pushed the diary to her.
The number was present at that time.
Aisha dialed it right away, while her hands trembled.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Then came a voice that sounded weary and male, "Then what?Then a weary, masculine voice replied.
“Hello?”
Aisha froze.
She had thought of this time when she was a child. Anger. Tears. Shouting.
On the contrary, her mouth wouldn't open.
What was it that was saying, "Hello?
“…Daddy?”
Silence.
Then breathing.
Heavy breathing.
“Aisha?”
One day she decided to go outside the bakery store as the inside was becoming too constrictive.
The water was splashed around by cars near the gutter. A dispute about the fare for transport was raised by someone nearby.
“Where?” she asked, “What happened?”
Not right away did her father respond.
At last he replied, “I am in Ibadan.
“Why would you abandon us?”
The question emerged more pointedly than she could have ever envisioned.
When she called him on the phone, she heard his slow inhale and exhale.
He was silent, and said, “I lost my job.” I took out my loans from bad people, your mom was already suffering, I think if I left, I wouldn't have to deal with paying this debt. His voice cracked. I was hoping that it would be easier for everyone of you.
Then Aisha closed her eyes.
“That is nonsense.”
“I know.”
“It would have been best to stay the night”
“I was ashamed.”
Others hurried by carrying their umbrellas and the rainwater was running alongside her sandals.
She had a vision of a cruel man for years. A selfish man. A man who left behind his family.
But she had instead found herself a weakling. Somebody hiding.
“Ever,” he replied.“Ever?” she asked with a softness.
He laughed sadly. “I don’t remember.”
“Mommy hasn't given up your old chair.”
Silence again.
Then she heard him weeping softly.
Not loudly. Only small breaking sounds.
“Aisha,” he asked quietly, “do you still think your mom doesn't like pepper when it's in stew?”
“Aisha” cried out in a fit of laughter, caused by her sudden tears.
“Yes.”
“So you don't mind having extra meat?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
The phone went silent once again.
Finally, Aisha turned back to the bakery window, at the old woman who was feigning her inability to see her.
“Next week, my birthday,” she whispered, “daddy.”
Across the phone, he paused for a second, as though he were about to pass away.
Then with faintest voice, as if he feared to hope, he said:
“Should I go and get the cake this time?”
