An Unusual Grief by Yewande Omotoso

Author:Yewande Omotoso
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CASSAVA REPUBLIC PRESS
Published: 2021-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Of all the things her daughter had accused her of (ageist, anti-feminist, homophobic, to name a few), coward was the worst. Mojisola recalls the disappointment in Yinka’s eyes. The sense that somehow, even though he was the cheat, it was her, Mojisola, who had failed. Wasn’t that the bloody patriarchy? Mojisola thinks, indignant and angry with a ghost. The accusation had been especially painful because there’d been a brief period when Mojisola had tried to insist, fight for her dignity, take a stand; all the things her daughter held so dear. It was during Yinka’s fourth year in architecture. The school characterised the year as a time of practical experience and Yinka secured work with a firm in Durban. For the first time, she was out of the house. Mojisola and Titus had to look at one another across the dining table. Within a few days she asked him to move out.

‘What?’

‘I’d like you to leave the house, please.’ She was determined to be polite about it.

‘Moji, this doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Yes, it does. It does make sense. Please don’t argue.’

She’d caught him a few times, except he hadn’t known. She’d heard the tail end of a conversation that could only have been with a lover. She’d stumbled over a gift that was never delivered to her. At first, a small sting in the corner of her eyes, a heat behind her eyeballs. She searched her emotions, feeling unknown to herself, numb. She was hurt but unsurprised. Had she always suspected he would wander, get bored, look elsewhere? Was that inevitable? She searched for disappointment. In small amounts. The overwhelming thing was a deadness, a real still (sleeping not dreaming) emptiness. There was nothing to fix, she didn’t wish to fight or carry on. She didn’t wish to go over the evidence in order to convince him, she simply needed him to leave the house — they could make final arrangements later.

‘Don’t make it difficult, Titus. Please.’

And he’d left, packed a small duffel bag and a box of books and left.

But then the bell rang.

‘Titus?’

‘Sorry to disturb you. I left my spare buttons.’

‘Pardon?’ Mojisola hadn’t opened the door. They were talking through the grille.

‘Moji, would you let me in, please. I left my spare buttons.’

She wondered if he was drunk; something about him seemed reckless.

‘Your spare buttons?’

‘I know it sounds silly but I’m certain I left them. Remember the suit I bought for the Stockholm conference? Do you remember that? And remember how I liked to keep the spare buttons separate?’

She actually remembered. Titus had this relationship to spares. First, he bought two of everything. Second, if the item he was buying (a collared shirt or a jacket) did not come with a little casing of spare buttons, he would practically devour the shop attendant. How could they sell something that didn’t cater for the inevitability of loss, of damage?

She let him in. She’d just finished speaking to Yinka on the phone. Neither she nor Titus had mentioned the separation: they pretended that all was normal.

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