Christmas had always been Adaugo's favorite time of the year. Not because of the gifts or the food — although there was always too much food — but because Christmas was the only time the whole family gathered in the village. It was the one time every year when life slowed down and everyone seemed to remember where they came from.
They traveled every December from Lagos to their hometown in the east. The journey was long and tiring, but Adaugo loved it — the roadside markets, the roasted corn, the loud music in buses, the way the air changed as they left the city behind.
Her mother always drove. She didn't trust drivers for long journeys.
"People drive like they want to die on the express," she always said.
Adaugo usually slept for half the journey and woke up when the roads became smaller and bumpier and the air smelled like dust, palm trees, and firewood.
That year's Christmas felt different from the beginning, although she couldn't explain why. Maybe it was because she had already been accepted to Korea University and everything now felt like it was counting down to something. Maybe it was because her mother had been quieter than usual since she told her about the admission.
Or maybe it was because something was about to happen that neither of them could stop.
The Village House
Her grandmother's house was always full during Christmas. Cousins everywhere, aunties cooking outside with big pots, uncles drinking and arguing about politics, children running around, goats making noise, music playing from someone's speaker.
By evening, the compound would smell like fried meat, jollof rice, pepper soup, and firewood smoke. People would sit outside on plastic chairs talking and laughing late into the night.
Adaugo liked sitting with her cousins, but sometimes she preferred to sit quietly and watch everyone. She liked observing people — the way her grandmother gave instructions without raising her voice, the way her uncles argued loudly but were laughing five minutes later, the way her mother became a different person in the village — softer, quieter, more like someone's daughter than a restaurant owner.
One afternoon, she was sitting outside with two of her cousins when the usual conversation started again.
"You are sure you are not mixed?" one cousin asked.
Adaugo rolled her eyes. "Not this again."
"You don't look like us."
"I look like my father," she replied automatically.
"But we have never seen your father," the other cousin said.
"He died before I was born," Adaugo said, repeating the sentence she had said her whole life.
Her cousins went quiet for a moment.
Then one of them said, "You know sometimes old people lie to protect children."
Adaugo laughed. "My mother does not lie."
But later that night, she would remember that sentence.
The Conversation She Was Not Supposed to Hear
That night, the compound was quieter. Most people had gone to sleep, and the generator had been turned off. The only light came from kerosene lamps and phone flashlights.
Adaugo woke up because she was thirsty. She walked quietly toward the kitchen at the back of the house, but as she passed her grandmother's room, she heard voices inside.
Her mother's voice.
And her grandmother's voice.
She was about to walk past, but then she heard her name.
"…she is going to Korea," her grandmother was saying.
"I know," her mother replied.
"Are you going to tell her before she goes?"
There was a long silence before her mother answered.
"I don't know how to tell her."
Adaugo froze where she was standing.
Tell her what?
"You cannot hide it forever," her grandmother said. "She is not a child anymore."
"I know," her mother said quietly. "I just wanted more time."
"Time for what?"
"I am afraid," her mother said.
"Afraid of what?" her grandmother asked.
There was another long silence.
Then her mother spoke again, very softly.
"I am afraid that when she knows the truth about her father, she will leave me and go to him."
Adaugo felt her heart start beating very fast.
Her father?
"I raised her alone," her mother continued. "I built my life again because of her. Everything I did was for her. I cannot lose her now."
"You will not lose her," her grandmother said gently.
"You don't know that," her mother replied. "You did not see how his family treated me. You did not see how they took him away from me."
Adaugo felt like the ground had disappeared under her feet.
Took him away?
"I told her he died because it was easier," her mother said quietly. "It was easier than explaining everything."
Adaugo stopped breathing for a moment.
Her father was not dead.
Her father was not dead.
Her father was not dead.
She quietly walked back to her room and lay down on the bed, staring into the darkness. Her mind was moving so fast she couldn't think properly.
If her father was not dead, where was he?
Why had he never come to see her?
Did he know she existed?
Why did his family take him away?
Why had her mother lied for so many years?
She did not sleep that night.
The Morning After
The next morning, everything felt normal, but nothing was normal anymore.
Her mother was in the kitchen with her aunties, cooking and laughing like nothing had happened. Her grandmother was outside supervising the children. Her uncles were arguing about football.
But Adaugo looked at her mother differently now.
She wanted to ask immediately.
She wanted to say, I know the truth. I heard you last night.
But she didn't.
She didn't know why, but she felt that if she asked the question now, everything in her life would change immediately.
And she was not ready for that yet.
So she pretended nothing had happened.
But inside, everything had already changed.
Back to Lagos
When they returned to Lagos after Christmas, life continued normally on the outside.
School resumed. Her mother went back to the restaurant. Traffic, noise, school assignments, customers, suppliers, normal life.
But Adaugo was not the same anymore.
She started noticing things she had never noticed before.
The way her mother sometimes looked at old photographs quietly.
The way she became uncomfortable whenever anyone asked about Adaugo's father.
The way she sometimes said things like, "Some families can be very cruel."
One evening, Adaugo finally asked a question.
"Mommy, how did you meet my father?"
Her mother was cutting vegetables in the kitchen when she asked.
Her mother stopped cutting immediately.
"Why are you asking?" she said without turning around.
"I just want to know."
Her mother continued cutting again slowly. "We met through work."
"What work?"
"We worked together."
"At the restaurant?"
Her mother paused.
"Yes," she said quietly.
Adaugo remembered something immediately.
"You said you started the restaurant with someone," she said slowly.
Her mother did not respond.
Adaugo's heart started beating faster.
"Was it my father?" she asked quietly.
Her mother finally turned around and looked at her.
"Yes," she said.
It felt like a door had opened, but only slightly.
Before Adaugo could ask another question, her mother said, "Some stories are very long and very painful. One day I will tell you everything. But not today."
Adaugo nodded.
But now she knew one thing for sure.
Her father was not dead.
And he had started the restaurant with her mother.
The Phone Call
About two months after Christmas, something happened that changed everything again.
Adaugo was in her room one Saturday afternoon doing an assignment when her phone rang. The number was international. She almost didn't answer.
But she did.
"Hello?" she said.
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then a man spoke.
"Hello… is this Adaugo?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"My name is Minho Park," the man said slowly. "I knew your mother many years ago."
Adaugo sat up immediately.
"You knew my mother? From Nigeria?"
"Yes," he replied. "And I also knew your father."
Adaugo felt her heart start beating very fast.
"What about my father?" she asked quietly.
There was a short silence before the man answered.
"Your father is not dead," he said.
Adaugo closed her eyes.
She already knew.
But hearing it from a stranger made it real in a completely different way.
"Where is he?" she asked.
"He lives in Seoul," the man replied.
Adaugo stopped breathing for a moment.
Seoul.
The same city as her university.
The same city she was going to in a few months.
It suddenly felt like everything in her life had been moving toward this without her knowing.
"Does he know about me?" she asked.
The man paused before answering.
"Yes," he said. "He has always known."
Adaugo felt something heavy settle in her chest.
"He knew… and he never came?" she whispered.
The man did not answer that question.
Instead, he said something else.
"When you come to Korea, we need to meet. There are many things you need to know about your father… and about why your mother left."
Adaugo felt like the world had suddenly become much bigger and much more complicated.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.
"Because you deserve to know the truth," the man replied.
Then he added quietly:
"Your life is not what you think it is."
The call ended a few seconds later.
Adaugo sat on her bed holding her phone and staring at the wall.
Her father was alive.
He lived in Seoul.
He knew she existed.
And she was going to the same city in a few months.
For the first time in her life, she felt like she was standing at the beginning of a story she didn't understand yet.