“So’ngburo Oladokun lati oke okun?” His voice quavered. His buba and soro, sizes smaller than he wore in his heyday, hung on his gaunt frame. Perhaps he was shedding weight faster than his tailor could sew. But it wasn’t the drastic change in his appearance that stunned his visitor, it was the question he’d posed.

For over 30 years, she had taken her specialty treacle cake and a basin of baked chicken to celebrate Eid with him. Though of different religions and now separated by distance, the families had recognized each other’s holy days with gifts – chicken and cake for Eid, ram and soft drinks for Christmas. Back and forth the four of them. And now, two.

“Remember Oladokun passed to the other side five years ago, Sir?” She tried to jog his memory. Clad in a simple Ankara blouse and wrapper, she was thankful he still recognized her. At eighty-three, she could no longer stand on protocol and had been surprised when she arrived to find a locked gate. The gateman had questioned her presence and only let her in at the directive of his nurse.

Last year, she hadn’t had such trouble. Four sons and their families were in residence. Friends and townsfolk dropped in. The house teemed with throngs celebrating the end of Ramadan.  The old man sat upstairs in his on parlor, as he did now.

“No, he stopped by before he traveled,” his conviction was softened by the hoarseness of his voice. “Agagu was here too. They argued about the location of the post office. You know, I’ve given up trying to get those two to agree on anything?” He wore the indulgent smile of an older “village brother” who accommodated the antics of his juniors as they labored together to develop their town.

For forty minutes, he talked about the departed like they were present and the old days like they were the present. When he was shown the treacle cake, he breathed, “Thank you for not forgetting.”