Senami Mausi shuffled dusty feet as he recited the periodic table under his breath. Earlier in the week, his chemistry teacher told the class that practice brought about progress. At thirteen, Senami knew there was nothing he wanted more than a life that took him far away from the limited boundaries of their fishing community.

He was on polonium, atomic number 84, when Ono walked through the school gates. He hitched the backpack strap up his shoulder and ran towards his mother. Ono’s tired face radiated her intense love for him. Senami prostrated before her. “Ekaasan, Ma,” he greeted.

“Oko mi, kaasan.” Ono gestured him to stand up. “How was your day?”

Senami returned her smile. Ono rarely called him by his first name. She said he deserved the “my husband” title because a child’s love was far more dependable than a man’s. “Fine, Ma.”

The faded green gown Ono had on was Senami’s favourite. “Are we going somewhere?” he asked.

Ono nodded. “Since your father is not returning home today, we are going to visit Kike.”

Senami’s heart leapt at the news. Aunty Kike was his mother’s childhood best friend. Her infrequent visits to Yovoyan felt like several Christmases wrapped into one day, and she bought him the best gifts. If Baba had been home, he would not have approved of their visit. Once, in Senami’s presence, Baba told Ono that Aunty Kike filled her head with impossible dreams. Ono’s big eyes flashed as she said it was better than not dreaming at all.

Ever since Iyawo – his father’s second wife – showed up with her angry parents and a protruding stomach, it seemed like all his parents did was fight.

As they made their way to the motor park, Senami’s empty stomach rumbled. He hoped Ono had enough money so they could stop at Iya Adunni’s buka for a meal. After his mother’s banter with the cheerful woman, Ono usually ordered amala with gbegiri soup with an assortment of fried meat pieces on a separate plastic plate. Senami’s mouth flooded with saliva as he imagined himself swallowing starch amala morsels moulded into perfect sizes with his fingers. On the days Ono had enough money, she bought him a bottle of icy Mirinda. The drink’s fruity taste washed the spicy aftertaste of the bean soup off his tongue.

His mother appeared lost in thought. To get her attention, he cleared his throat. “Ono, when we get to the motor park, please can we eat at Iya Adunni’s buka?”

“I don’t understand why you like that woman’s food,” she said.

“Your food is better,” Senami said with a teasing look. “I only manage hers.”

Ono beamed as she sang her family’s praise song. “Omo onile obi, the one whose trees grow pods of money. My Senami, handsome and outstanding amongst his peers.” Then she gave him a playful push. “You know how to make your mother happy.”

Senami exhaled. Making his mother happy was important to him.

Hours later, the sweltering Molue bus dropped them in front of the bustling Balogun Market. It was where Aunty Kike sold a wide variety of skin bleaching cosmetics.

Ono’s steadying hand stayed on Senami’s shoulder as they navigated the surging crowd. Senami heaved a sigh of relief when they arrived at their destination—Aunty Kike’s Yellow Pawpaw Beauty Enterprises.

Dressed in a gold and blue gown with silver threads, they met Aunty Kike’s plump figure squeezed into the purple high back chair facing the door. Her high-pitched voice rang as she instructed the two shop girls arranging new products on the shelves.

She stopped mid-sentence and rose to her feet when she saw them. “Atofarati!”

Aunty Kike was the only person who called his mother by her first name. Senami stood back as the two women shared a tight hug. Smaller than her friend, Ono’s head rested on Aunty Kike’s bosom.

“What a nice surprise,” Aunty Kike said.

Ono sighed. “It has been too long.”

Aunty Kike nodded her agreement. “You know this Lagos life. Busy, busy.”