Adosila Akiga Jnr. 

My mother named me after my father. She says she did this because I remind her so much of him. I never met my father—he died before I was born. Truthfully, he killed himself. I never understood why he did it. Mother says he was a troubled man, always battling his demons. That’s all she ever says about him.

She doesn’t know I still hear her at night when she cries herself to sleep.

I remember the first time I saw her cry. It was late one night. I’d been out with friends, one of those nights when I let them convince me to go out. I came home past midnight and walked to her room to check if she was still awake. I could hear her from down the hallway. She was crying and calling my name. I tiptoed to her door—she’d forgotten to close it.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a blue sweatshirt to herself. I stood there, watching her cry into it, occasionally mumbling words drowned by her tears. And then she’d call my name. I was confused. Why was she calling my name? My mind raced through every piece of clothing I’d ever owned, but I was sure the sweatshirt wasn’t mine. I stood there for a while, watching her, until she finally noticed me.

“Adosila, is that you?”

It was clearer this time. With the clarity of her voice, I could tell she hadn’t been calling for me. She’d been calling his name all along.

“Yes, it’s me,” I answered, walking into the room and sitting beside her on the bed. She wiped her face with her palm, but it didn’t hide the tears. From her damp cheeks to her red eyes, it was clear she’d been crying for hours.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

“Not long. I just got home. I came to check if you were asleep.”

“Did you have fun with your friends?”

“Are you crying because of him?” I asked, ignoring her question.

She looked at me, surprised. She hadn’t expected me to say that. The tears in her eyes threatened to spill again.

“Your father did that a lot—ignoring me to ask his own questions,” she said. She’d told me this before, how I reminded her of him.

I still didn’t understand why she would cry for him. “How could you cry for a man who would leave you like that?” I asked. He didn’t deserve her tears.

“Because I loved him,” she said, smiling through her tears. “And he never left.”

I still didn’t understand, but I moved closer to her side as she leaned into me. I wrapped my arms around her. Her sobs were silent, just a steady stream of tears.

“Someday, you’ll tell me about him?”

Silence.

She was asleep.