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I didn’t like heading back to work after Jummah. Something about sharing an intimate moment of prayer with God and then returning to work never sat right with me. So everyone at work knew not to expect me, and everyone at home looked forward to me returning earlier than usual on Fridays.

At the mosque, the imam preached about patience. Each sentence invited introspection, making me consider how I could be better. So when my wife’s name flashed on my screen, I hit the silence button. On days when the lecture wasn’t as moving, I would have stepped out and whispered, “call me back.” But that day, the imam’s sermon moved me to do right, even if only for a moment. Her call could wait.

I paid little attention as the phone kept vibrating. Then the name changed. It was no longer my wife. It was my mother. At that point, the fear that comes with back-to-back calls from family gripped me.

After the second rakat, I rushed to a corner and called my wife. She picked up immediately, her voice forming words over the static of my phone and the imam’s closing prayers for the living and the long dead.

“Where are you? He hit me. Can you imagine? Is it because we’re the same height?” 

Then her voice trailed off. I cancelled my grocery run and drove straight home.

***

My family is close-knit. We care for each other and show up. Nieces and nephews spend holidays with uncles and aunts. Distant cousins squat while they find their feet. During big family events, relatives stay together instead of booking hotels.

So when my older sister died, where he would stay wasn’t our biggest concern. Everyone wanted him. The real question was who was the right fit. The family, along with his father, agreed he should remain with the maternal side. So that decision was settled.

At the time, I had just completed NYSC and couldn’t take him in, even though I wanted to prove I could honour my sister by caring for her son. So we agreed my parents — his grandparents — would take him. It worked. Taofeek* settled in with them, and the rest of us made sure he lacked nothing, not even the kind of care you’d expect from a mother. We agreed he wasn’t just our late sister’s child; he was ours.

Years later, word started to spread that Taofeek had entered his rebellious teenage phase. His name came up at family gatherings, and my parents’ complaint stayed the same: they’d grown too weak to handle him. He needed an iron hand. They didn’t want people saying, “He turned out this way because his mum died.”

At the time, I was married with my own family, and I felt stable enough to take him in. After all, he wasn’t just my sister’s child; he was mine. So a few weeks later, I parked in front of my parents’ house, stacking Ghana-must-go bags into my boot as Taofeek began a new phase of life.

In that moment, my heart broke a little. I wondered how he felt, even with all the love around him, being passed around like property. But he seemed pleasant, even eager to move in with his favourite uncle. I hoped my sister was smiling, seeing how we tried to make sure her son would be fine.

Taofeek settled in easily. My kids loved him, and my wife tried her best. She wasn’t thrilled about having an extra person in the house, but I met every complaint with my resolve to do right by my late sister.

Within months, I started to notice things: too much TV, dishes left unattended, the occasional smug look when asked to run errands, an obsession with football, and moods that soured the house after a scolding. I had been worse as a teenager, so it didn’t shock me. If anything, Taofeek reminded me of the version of myself my parents had to hand over to God and His infinite mercies. I made excuses and told my wife, “He’s just a child. This is expected. He’ll change.”

***

That Friday, when I got home, Taofeek sat crammed in a corner of the living room. My wife stood on the other side, pacing and throwing frantic hands in the air as she recounted what had happened.

She walked in to find him watching football while the kitchen sat in disarray; dirty plates piled in the sink, pots from the previous night untouched. She called him to clean up, but he didn’t respond immediately. When he finally did, he muttered something. She asked him to repeat it, but he refused.

So she hit him. A loud smack on the back of his neck that dragged the words out of him. This time, she heard it clearly: “Ahn ahn. What is it now?”

She couldn’t believe it. She moved to hit him again, but he dodged it. In the struggle, his hand collided with her face.

He slapped her.

Both of them stood there, waiting for my reaction as conflicting emotions sat heavy on my chest. I felt anger that Taofeek would disrespect my wife. I also wondered if she had exaggerated things. The boy had been nothing but careful, almost tiptoeing around her once he realised she didn’t indulge him. Still, the fact remained: he disrespected my wife.

So I gave him a stern dressing-down and laid out new rules. Chores handled immediately. No TV until 5 p.m. “Yes, ma” whenever my wife calls. And so on. My wife wasn’t pleased. She wanted me to draw blood, to give him a good beating. But I don’t like that form of discipline. It inflicts pain but rarely solves anything.

It’s been weeks, and I don’t think she has forgiven him. She took the issue to my parents. They’ve called nonstop and always end with, “He’s your son. We all have to raise him together.”

Now I worry about where this is heading. I wonder if I should send him back to my parents…for the time being.