The shape of her absence 3 - by David Lilly-West

The house did not feel empty after the funeral.It felt unfinished.Morayo’s last words had not faded with her breath. “You have a child” a girl to be precise Femi pondered over the moment everynight, knowing fully well that he had to find his daughter for particular reasons, one so he could keep the memory of Morayo alive and to also be a good father to her, Femi constantly thought about her last moments on earth with tears in his eyes he painfully remembered the tightening of her fingers, the urgency in her eyes, and the silence that followed before she could say where she had left her daughter or rather their daughter He had let pride and fear of the future cost him the woman he loved, with teary eyes and shaking hands he went on his knees and swore he wouldn’t let hesitation or fear cost him his only child, and what made it better somto entered the room at that point so as to reassure him that he is not going to be doing this alone, that they don’t care how long it takes, days, weeks months or even years but they shall use every resource in their disposal to make sure they find his daughter. Where the problem lies now is on the fact that morayo died before she could even tell femi a name, so all he had was a little bit of information that he had a child and it was a girl. The search began in silence. Not with investigators.Not with announcements.Not with money. With her books. Morayo had the habit of always documenting things down , something femi found out, on their first date she had a small jotter where she was constantly writing things down, this act continued up until the point where she left, and she continued when they got back together, femi never searched through it cause to him it was her private way of showing love so he gave her the respect and never went through it. Morayo had always hidden things in pages — receipts, dried flowers, folded notes. Femi knew this because he used to tease her about it.“She said paper remembers better than people,” he murmured one afternoon as he and Somto sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, surrounded by stacks of her novels.Hours had passed Dust had gathered on their sleeves Grief hung between them so did hope Then an envelope fell on Somto’s head, calling on femi’s attention to show him the envelope that read “When he’s ready” Femi couldn’t breathe, his hands trembled, eyes began to fill with tears as he tears open the envelope only to see one photograph. In the picture, was morayo sitting on a small couch, looking thinner than he remembered. In her arms was a caramel skin little girl who had very observant eyes and a birthmark just beneath her left ear Femi touched the photo like it might disappear The birthmark was his Behind the photo, another note If you are reading this, it means you finally understand that love must be present to survive. And beneath that A small flash drive Then suddenly Femi realized that morayo knew she was going to die, she knew she had little time left. They sat at Femi’s desk Somto inserted the flash drive into the laptop Only one file appeared With the name “lullaby for Adedoyin” Adedoyin. The name hit femi like both a wound and a miracle Lo and behold they have a name, so they press play, Morayo’s voice filled the room soft, tired but steady She was singing Not perfectlyNot professionally But lovingly At the end of the recording, her voice stopped singing and began speaking “If you’re listening to this, Femi… it means you are ready now. Her name is Adedoyin. She loves yellow dresses and hates sleeping without a story. I told her about you not the man that forgot me but the man that once danced with me in an unfinished apartment.” Femi broke down once again contemplating on how he failed to love Morayo the way she wanted, maybe if he did give her the love in the way she wanted they would have been together now and maybe she won’t have lived the life that killed her Somto gripped his shoulder “She’s in Ibadan,” Morayo’s recorded voice continued. “I didn’t tell you before because I needed you to grow first. I needed you to understand that presence is everything.”There was a pause.“I never stopped loving you. But I needed you to come find her — not because you can… but because you want to.”The recording ended.The room felt sacred.Femi wiped his face slowly.“She trusted me,” he whispered.Somto shook his head gently.“She trusted who you would become.” The next morning, they left. No convoyNo driverNo announcement Just two men choosing not to be late again Before all these somto had learned from the mistakes of femi and went after the one he loved, her name was zara, no more rushing back home after classes, somto went all in, hoping he doesn’t make the same mistakes femi made, so she was in on the search too Somto texted Zara We found a name and shes in ibadan Zara replied like she was waiting for the text to come in Go bring her home Femi drove in silence, but it wasn’t the hollow silence from before.This one carried direction.Hope.Fear.Redemption.“She made me earn this,” Femi said finally.Somto smiled softly.“She loved you enough to.”And somewhere in Ibadan —A little girl named Adedoyin was waking up,unaware that her father was finally on his way. The school in ibadan was smaller than femi imagined.Not because morayo couldn’t afford betterBecause she would have chosen warmth over prestigeChildren flooded the courtyard in laughter and noise, school bags bouncing, shoes scraping against concreteFemi stood still“breathe,” somto murmuredThen he saw herNot the loudest.Not the fastest.But watching.Observing the world instead of competing with itYellow dress.His chest tightened“she hates sleeping without a story”Morayo’s voice echoed in his memory.The girl adjusted her backpack, and as she turned—There it was.The birthmark beneath her left ear.Femi didn’t realize he was walking until he was already close.“Adedoyin?” he asked gently.She turned fully now.Her eyes were not afraid.They were curious.“Yes?”“My name is Femi.”She stared at him longer than a child normally would.Then she said quietly,“I know.”The world tilted.“My mom showed me your picture,” she continued. “She said you were important.”Femi’s throat burned.“She told me you might come one day,” Adedoyin added.A small pause.“You’re late.”The words were not angry.Just honest.Femi dropped to his knees in front of her.“I know,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”Adedoyin studied his face like she was checking for truth.“Did you forget about us?”The question nearly destroyed him.“No,” he said firmly, tears falling now. “I just didn’t understand in time.”She considered this.Then she stepped forward and wrapped her small arms around his neck.“You can come now,” she said softly.And that was forgiveness. The drive back to Lagos felt different.Adedoyin sat in the backseat beside Somto, asking questions.“Is the house big?”“Yes.”“Is it lonely?”Somto glanced at Femi.“Not anymore.”She liked Somto instantly.By the time they stopped for food, she had already decided he was hers too.“Are you my brother?” she asked seriously.Somto smiled. “If you want me to be.”She nodded once.“Okay.”When they arrived at the house, Adedoyin walked in slowly.Not overwhelmed.Just observant.“This is where she stayed?” she asked.“Yes,” Femi said.Adedoyin touched the staircase railing gently.“She said you forget to eat when you’re thinking too much.”Somto laughed quietly.“She wasn’t wrong.”And for the first time since Morayo died, laughter did not feel like betrayal.It felt like continuation. ONE YEAR LATERThe cemetery was quiet.The four of them stood together.Femi.Adedoyin.Somto.Zara.Yes — Zara stood there too.Because Somto had learned.He did not love in secret.He did not love halfway.He showed up.Adedoyin placed white flowers on Morayo’s grave carefully.“I told him he was late,” she said proudly. “But he came.”Femi knelt beside his daughter.“I finally understood,” he said softly. “Presence. I get it now.”Somto stood behind them, Zara’s hand in his.He thought about the boy he had been — chasing admiration, confused about love.He thought about the man he was becoming — choosing to stay.“I won’t be late,” he whispered to Zara.She squeezed his hand.At the grave, Adedoyin traced the engraved name with her fingers.“She said love doesn’t disappear,” Adedoyin murmured. “It just changes shape.”Femi closed his eyes.The shape of her absence had once felt unbearable.Now it felt like this:A daughter laughing in the kitchen.A young couple choosing presence early.A house no longer echoing.Morayo had left once because she was afraid of disappearing.But she returned to make sure none of them ever would.The wind moved gently across the cemetery.Warm.Forgiving.And for the first time in years—Femi did not feel haunted.He felt trusted.Love had not ended.It had stayed.In Adedoyin.In Somto.In Zara.In the promise to never be late again.And this time—They weren’t.And somewhere beyond what the eye could see, beyond marble stone and quiet earth, love stood still and watched them choose differently. It no longer lived in unfinished apologies or borrowed time, but in laughter echoing through hallways, in small hands reaching without fear, in a young man refusing to be late, and in a father who finally understood that presence is the purest form of devotion. Morayo was no longer the shape of an absence. She was the rhythm inside everything they kept. And in every room where light touched gently and stayed, so did she.

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