— A Man With Empty Hands
Dust and Silk
Amaka was pounding yam in the backyard when she heard her mother's voice call her in a tone she hadn't heard in years.
That tone. That deep, quiet, shaky tone.
"Amaka. Come inside. Now."
She blinked. Wiped her face with the edge of her wrapper. "Wetin happen again?"
"Just come."
She didn't argue. Something in her mother's voice pressed on her chest.
Amaka entered the small sitting room, yam-smelling, sweat-soaked, and annoyed.
Then she saw him.
A man.
Sitting on the old red couch.
Dark. Gaunt. Cheeks slightly sunken. Shirt buttoned wrong. Slippers cracked at the back. Face… familiar, but aged like forgotten beans.
He stood as soon as she entered.
And smiled — the kind of nervous smile people give police officers at checkpoints.
"Amaka," he said. His voice was low, rough, unsure.
She froze. Looked at her mother. "Who is this?"
Mama Amaka didn't speak.
"Amaka… it's me," he said again. "Your… father."
Her hands dropped.
You could hear the cock in the compound stop crowing mid-sentence.
Amaka's eyes narrowed like cutlass lines. "You said what?"
"Amaka—"
She laughed. Sharp, dry. "Daddy? You said daddy?"
He swallowed.
Mama Amaka moved slightly. "Amaka—"
"No mummy, wait." She looked at him from head to toe. "So this is the man?"
Silence.
"The one who vanished like SMS balance? The one who left you when I still had baby powder on my neck?"
"I—"
"No. Don't talk. Just sit there and be dramatic."
Her mother sat down like she'd lost energy. "He just came today. From Lagos."
"From where?" Amaka snapped. "Is that where he went to hide his shame?"
The man looked down.
"I know I've failed you," he said, voice cracking. "But I've come to beg."
"To beg who? Jesus?"
"Amaka."
She raised her hands like she was conducting choir. "You know how many times I cried over not having a father? The school plays I had no one to clap for me? The village boys that mocked me?"
Tears were forming in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
He moved toward her slowly. "I know I can't erase what I did. But please… give me a chance."
She stepped back like he'd touched her with fire.
"No. Stay there. Don't bring your poverty and your regrets and drop them on me like apology stew."
He stopped.
Her mother finally spoke. "Amaka, at least sit—"
"Mummy I won't sit. You raised me. You suffered. This man didn't even send wrapper during Christmas."
Her chest rose and fell.
She pointed at the door.
"You're not my father. You're just a man who used to know my mother."
And with that, she turned and walked out of the house.
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Outside, Mama Ijebu who was "just passing by" had somehow paused by the fence.
She looked into the compound with the full confidence of a nosy neighbor.
"Ah ah, na who dey shout like that?" she asked no one.
Two children playing nearby ran to whisper into her ear.
Within ten minutes, the news had spread to three compounds, the tailoring shop, and the small pharmacy near the stream.
By evening, everyone knew.
"Obinna? That useless one?"
"He still dey alive?! I thought spirit carried him!"
"Ehn, and he just show face like spirit of hunger. Amaka almost slapped him with words."
Mama Nkechi added, "You see why I said girl children are strong? Let it be boy — he would've hugged him and collected the man's torn shirt."
The gossip was on fire.
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That night, the house was too quiet. Even the crickets outside were afraid to sing.
Amaka lay on her mat, face to the wall, back to the world.
She heard soft footsteps. A knock.
Her mother's voice: "Amaka?"
No answer.
The door creaked. Light from the lantern flickered in.
Her mother stood for a moment, then walked in and sat beside her.
"Amaka."
Silence.
"You were harsh."
Still silence.
Her mother sighed. "But maybe you had the right."
Amaka turned around. Her eyes were red, cheeks wet.
"Why did you let him in?"
"Because he's still your father."
"He's a stranger."
"Yes. A stranger with your eyes."
Amaka sniffed. "He's not staying, is he?"
Her mum didn't respond immediately. Then, "Just for a few days. He has nowhere to go. He said he was tired of running."
Amaka looked up at the ceiling.
"Let him stay. But not for me."
Her mother looked at her. "Then for what?"
She whispered, "For the girl I used to be. Who waited at the gate for a man who never came."
Tears rolled again. But this time, she didn't wipe them.
Her mum sat beside her in silence. Two women, carrying different weights from the same past.
And somewhere in the other room, a man with empty hands and too-late apologies was lying on the floor, staring into the dark, hoping that maybe silence could forgive him where words failed.
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