Even if she had grown, he wanted her to know he had thought of her every single day.
When he arrived near the village, the sun was setting. The dirt road was still there. Children ran after a torn ball. An old woman pounded cassava near her doorway. People stared at Obinna before recognizing him.
“Obinna?” an old man asked.
“Yes,” he answered softly. “I have come back.”
The closer he came to Chiniere’s house, the heavier his chest felt. Six years was a long time. Too long.
At the gate, he stopped. The metal was rusty. The outer wall was cracked. In the yard lay basins, abandoned shoes, and a broken plastic chair.
He expected shouting, joy, someone calling his name.
But the house was quiet.
He knocked.
When Chiniere opened the door, she stared at him like a ghost had appeared.
“Obinna?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is me.”
“You should have told us you were coming.”
The words surprised him. He had expected her to smile, embrace him, and call Adaeze. Instead, she stepped back stiffly and let him enter.
Inside, the house smelled of hot oil and cheap soap. Uche and Amaka sat in the living room, cleanly dressed, phones in hand, notebooks open before them. They glanced up briefly, then looked away.
Obinna put down his bag.
“Where is Adaeze?”
Chiniere avoided his eyes.
“She is at the back.”
A strange chill moved through him.
He walked down the narrow corridor toward the outdoor kitchen.
There, bent over a basin of dirty water, was a young girl scrubbing clothes. Her hands were red from soap. Her dress was old, too large, and faded. Her feet were bare. Her hair was tied carelessly beneath a worn scarf.
She slowly raised her eyes.
Obinna froze.
He recognized Ifeoma’s eyes in that tired face.
Adaeze did not move. It was as though she could not believe her father was truly there.
For a few seconds, Obinna could not breathe. The sounds around him faded. He saw only his daughter.
She had grown, but not as he had imagined. Her round cheeks were gone. Her face was thin. Her shoulders looked too narrow. Her hands were damaged, nails broken, fingers pale from soap.
Even the way she stood hurt him.
She stood like someone trying to take up as little space as possible.
“Papa,” she whispered.
His heart cracked.
“Adaeze.”
He moved toward her. Before he reached her, she lowered her eyes, as if afraid of being looked at too long.
Obinna gently placed his hand on her head.
“Look at me, my daughter.”
She raised her eyes hesitantly.
There was no bright joy in them. No light. Only exhaustion, caution, and a fear that seemed to have lived there for years.
“You have grown,” he said softly.
Her lips trembled.
“You came back?”
He pulled her into his arms. At first, her body stiffened, then slowly relaxed. That hesitation hurt him more than anything.
When he stepped back, he noticed a small cut on her wrist.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I hurt myself cutting vegetables.”
Before he could ask more, Chiniere’s voice rang behind them.
“Adaeze, you have not finished the clothes. You still need to clean the yard before night.”
Obinna turned.
“Let her breathe a little,” he said.
Chiniere gave a tight smile.
“Of course. But everyone works in this house.”
That sentence stayed with him.
Everyone works.
But when they went inside, Uche was stretched on the sofa watching videos on his phone, while Amaka chatted with a neighbor. Adaeze went straight back to the kitchen.
That evening, Chiniere prepared rice, spicy tomato sauce, fried fish, and plantain. Everyone sat around the table except Adaeze, who stood near the kitchen door with her arms at her sides.
“Adaeze, come sit,” Obinna said.
