Our father’s body lay on a plinth the color of gunmetal. He was covered by a simple white sheet up to his collarbone, above which his shaved head was supported by a stone headrest. Looking at him, it was as if his body had shrunk in tandem with his dissembling life.
I shivered. The visitation room in Omega Funeral Home was as cold as a meat locker, while outside the rainy season had turned Lagos into a sauna. When I grabbed my brother Femi’s hand, I was reminded of the pain that flooded me when he called with the news of our father’s death.
“Anike,” Femi started.
“I was just about to call you,” I began. “Anike,” Femi interrupted, firmer this time.
“Yeah?” I replied.
