BABI-LON

by Merit Gogo-fyneface

Damilare had passed Babi-Lon severally without going in. The shredded leaves around the entrance and the roundabout where red buses circled every fifteen minutes had always been the limit of his curiosity. He had seen the little off-licence shop at the corner, and he had noticed miscreants bouncing around in hoodies, smoking and passing knowing looks over whatever they traded.

Today was different; he had walked straight into the metal door. It was a large and noisy room. Music thumped somewhere far inside, bass vibrating through the metal frames of the chairs. Damilare managed to find a seat. The chair scraped loudly against the concrete floor as he dragged it towards a small grimy table that had not even been cleaned after the last customer.

“What’ll it be?” a waiter asked impatiently.

He glanced at the menu but barely saw the words.

“Just… beer,” he said.

“Which one?”

“Any.”

The waiter shook his head as he walked away, probably thinking Damilare was too old not to know what drink he preferred. He noticed a petite lady smiling at him from time to time. He avoided her eyes. Instead, he stared blankly at the rim of the glass before him, drinking from something that did nothing to quiet the shame Ekene had injected into him.

It had been about a year since they had moved from Lagos to start a life in London. Sometimes he still wondered how he had allowed it to happen. A gigantic five-bedroom apartment in Lekki, a Ford Explorer, two Toyota Corollas bought a year apart — all sold in response to Ekene’s constant pleas for relocation.

“We cannot keep living like this,” she had said countless nights.

“Living like what?” he would ask, exhausted.

“In a country that is failing.”

“Ekene, we are comfortable.”

“That’s not the issue.”

He had told her several times they did not have to leave.Most of their friends had left. Their neighbours too. Big celebrations had shrunk into small gatherings as people relocated. Damilare believed they could remain. He recalled the email announcing his promotion to Head of Global Operations .It was finally in his hands, all he had prayed for but Ekene would not let him sleep. She would wake him in the middle of the night.

“Have you seen this?” she would whisper urgently, shoving her phone in his face.

“What time is it Ekene?” he would groan.

“Look! Kidnappings, protests. Damilare…”

He began to believe Ekene might be right the month burglars broke into their heavily secured office building and exposed just how fragile their sense of safety really was. The security guards were tied up, glass shattered everywhere. He had escaped through a window and jumped off the one-storey building with strength he had never known he possessed.

That night he returned home shaken. Ekene served him dinner with judgement in her eyes. She said nothing at all, and he wondered if he was foolish enough to stay. He also wondered if he preferred the woman who nagged peace out of him or the silent one who sat beside him and watched him struggle to swallow his food.

“Are you sure about this?” his lawyer had asked during one of the property sales.

“No,” he said honestly, yet he signed anyway. The only sense he could make of his choices was the obvious fact that he would not raise his unborn child in so much uncertainty.

Damilare had begun schooling first, he had secured admission before Ekene’s came through. They had resolved that he would begin.
Ekene found work as a healthcare assistant, while Damilare took a warehouse job, assuring himself it was only a stepping stone to something better. It was not the most convenient way they had lived, but they were surviving.

The kitchen often awaited him empty, he would fix himself lunch, dinner, and breakfast. Ayo had just been born, and Damilare reminded himself he could not complain. The warehouse nearly broke him. His back pain grew worse by the day.Sometimes he would stretch against the shelves.He wondered if he would ever have the energy to make more children with the pain crawling up his spine every night. Eventually, he had agreed with Ekene on a new arrangement: Ekene would work more shifts while he took care of Ayo. It was the most practical solution until he finished his education and found a befitting job with his MBA.

At first, it seemed to work better. Ayo would giggle whenever he lifted him.Sometimes he felt something inside him shrinking as his days of endurance stretched far beyond what he had imagined.

***

The pain and exhaustion still lingered, but routine had taken hold of their days. In their small flat, they gathered for breakfast on the worn dining table, the day’s chores still ahead. Damilare hesitated before speaking.

“I… I was thinking maybe I could meet up with some friends this week,” he said softly, trying to sound casual.

“Just… catch up, have a bit of time out.”

Ekene sat beside him, one hand rubbing the arch of her aching foot. Her eyes were fixed on the debit receipt she had just received after paying their rent.

She said nothing at first. She had been up before dawn, had worked a twelve-hour shift, and now she was staring at numbers that seemed to drain her. A tired sigh escaped her lips, carrying weeks of exhaustion.
“You… want time for yourself,” she started, her voice quiet but trembling slightly beneath the strain, “while I sit here staring at this… while I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to survive this week?”

Damilare looked at her uncertainly.

“Ekene, I…”

“No, listen,” she interrupted, her voice rising, though still lined more with weariness than anger.

“Do you know what it’s like, Damilare? To crawl into other people’s houses, care for them like they’re your own family, clean up messes nobody even thanks you for… and then come home to a flat where the bills are higher than my paycheck? Where I’m the only one making sure we survive?”

She rubbed both feet now, curling her toes inside her shoes as though trying to push away the fatigue. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and for a moment she looked smaller, vulnerable, her usual fire tempered by exhaustion.

“I’m not asking for a life of luxury,” she said more softly now, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “I’m asking to breathe for a second without wondering if the next bill will push us over the edge. I’m asking not to carry everything while you take time off.”

Damilare opened his mouth to respond, but she stood abruptly, adjusting her navy blue coat.

“I have to go . I have to do everything I can to keep us afloat. I can’t… I can’t deal with this right now. ” she said. Ekene grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and cast one last weary glance at him and shut the door behind her.

***

A few weeks later, they seemed to have recovered from the arguments. They shared laughter again. Damilare carried on with his routines: cooking, cleaning, and caring for Ayo while Ekene worked.
Months quietly hardened into a routine neither of them spoke about. Damilare still had not secured a job in his career path, and his applications continued to meet rejection after rejection.
He moved through the small kitchen of their flat trying not to wake the house. The kettle would whistle softly. He would make breakfast — toast and eggs.

The sink was almost always full. Damilare would roll up the sleeves of his faded sweatshirt and begin washing plates. Behind him, Ayo would eventually stir and crawl around as they both let Ekene sleep after her long shifts.
“Da… da…”

“I’m coming,” Damilare would say, drying his hands.

Ayo’s small hands would reach for his face when he lifted him.

“Morning,” he would whisper, kissing his forehead.

Some days those moments saved him and other days they reminded him of everything he had lost.

***

Damilare’s phone rang on a grey Tuesday evening while Ayo napped beside him on the couch.

“Mama,”

“Damilare,” her voice came gently.

There was always something about the calmness of her voice that made him uneasy.

“How are you?” he asked.

“We thank God,” she replied.

“Things are not easy here, Dami.”

Damilare leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees.

“I know, Mama.”

“The market is slow. Your father’s medication is expensive.”

Damilare closed his eyes.

“I understand,” he whispered, scratching his head.

“You have not supported us since you left the country.”

The words were calm but heavy.

“It has been difficult here too,” he said quietly.

He could not explain beyond that. He could not tell her how different life was now, or explain the routines and tension between him and Ekene. It was not how he had lived.

“I know,” she replied quickly. “I know you are trying.”

She paused.

“If you can send something small… anything… it would help.”

Ayo shifted in his sleep beside him.

“How much do you need, Mama?” he asked softly.

“Whatever you can send.”

“Okay, Mama,” he said.

“God bless you,” she replied.

After the call ended, he sat staring at the wall for a long time, the weight of responsibility pressing heavily against him.

Hours later, Ekene finally stirred from sleep. They ate in silence while he let her rest.

Ayo stirred from the couch.

“Ma… ma,” he squealed.

“Helloooo,” she said warmly, lifting him into her arms.

She kissed his cheeks repeatedly.

“How has he been?” she asked.

“Great,” Damilare replied.

She nodded and carried Ayo into the bedroom before returning to the living room.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I need a favour.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“What kind of favour?”

“My mum called.”

Ekene’s expression changed immediately.

“And?”

“She said things are tough.”

“Things are tough everywhere.”

“I know.”He cleared his throat.

“I was wondering if you could lend me about fifty pounds.”

“I’ll pick up a shift this weekend. I’ll pay you back,” he added quickly.

Ekene blinked slowly.

“Who will take care of Ayo?” she asked.

“I have been working all week, you know this,” she snapped.

“I know.”

“So when exactly will you be going for this shift?”

“Maybe Saturday.”

“and Ayo?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

She laughed suddenly.

“You want me, Ekene, to send your mother my hard-earned money, Damilare? For what?”

“It’s just a loan.”

“Oh, now she needs money.”

“Ekene!”

“Do you know what I do at work, Damilare?” she snapped. “Maybe staying at home has stopped you from thinking clearly.”

He stayed silent.

“I go into people’s houses,” she continued, her voice rising. “I care for them. I clean up after them. Damilare, I clean them up to feed this house!” She said pointing her fingers upwards now.

“You see the bulb above your head? My sweat. My blood.”

He swallowed.

“You see the water you waste because you don’t work? My blood.”

“Ekene!”

“Damilare, who pays for transportation?” she pressed on. “Trains. Buses. Baby food.”

Ayo babbled incessantly, unaware of the tension in the room.

“I do every damn thing in this house,” she continued.

“And you want me to send your mother a penny of my sweat?”

Her eyes burned.

“…When she called me names and treated me poorly?”

He lowered his gaze.

“Aha,” she scoffed. “She didn’t know there would be a day of reckoning.”

She suddenly kicked off her pink slippers and placed her bare feet on the carpet.

“I swear,” she screamed, “not even a single penny will leave my hands, Damilare!”

“Ekene!”

“Tell your mother her peasant daughter-in-law — the gold-digging one — does not have a dime.”

Damilare felt something collapse slowly inside him.

“Ekene, this is uncalled for,” he said quietly.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

His voice trembled slightly.

“I know Mama had her issues, but I stood by you,” he continued carefully. “I’m only asking for a soft loan, Ekene.”

Silence filled the room as Ayo crawled toward him and held onto his leg.

“Da… da…”

Damilare lifted him slowly.

Ekene watched them both, pleased by how much Ayo had warmed to Damilare, yet still angry about everything his request had reminded her of.
“This conversation is over!” she howled, walking into the bedroom with Ayo.
Damilare reached for his coat and let the door click shut behind him. The weight of the argument had made him desperate for air.
He made his way into Babi-Lon now, the dim noisy bar he had long imagined as a place to breathe.

***

Damilare barely noticed the lady approaching through the haze of smoke until a voice cut across his thoughts. He had dropped his glass after the second beer. He had imagined Babi-Lon as a place to catch his breath, but even there the weight of his choices clung to him. She walked toward him slowly.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked.

“No,”he said, raising his head.

She pulled the chair opposite him and sat down.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“ Toyin.” She said, stretching out her hand.

He hesitated before taking them.

“Damilare.”

“Well, Damilare, what brings you here?”

He laughed quietly.

“I’m not sure.”

“Hmmmm…”

He looked into his glass.

“My wife thinks I’m failing.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

Toyin leaned back.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked.

He spoke about Lagos, his cars, his office, and the power of signing documents that changed people’s lives.

Damilare watched the smoke drift through the room.

“I’m not sure who I am anymore,” he said.

Toyin nodded slowly.

“London does that to people.”

“You?”

“Oh yes,” she said with a small laugh. “I came here thinking I would do something more fulfilling.”

“Really?”

“Yea. I became a hairstylist with two degrees in Business Management.”

Damilare smiled.

“Dreams change or disappear here,” she said, lifting another drink and staring at him intently.

“Only if you let them.”

“Why are you talking to me?”He said, looking at her now.

“Because you look like a man who… needs maybe a little help.”She said, winking at him.

They both laughed.

Damilare exhaled slowly. For the first time that day, the weight in his chest loosened slightly.

“Another drink?” she asked.

“Alright.”

They spent hours together, and somewhere between laughter and silence, he kissed her.

Damilare wanted to do better. Each time he hesitated, Ekene’s voice returned to him:

“The bulb above your head… my sweat, my blood…”

He did not pull away from Toyin. He held her, convincing himself what he felt now was air, freedom. His burdens seemed to disappear with her, but the moment he opened the door and saw Ekene asleep on the sofa and Ayo curled safely in her arms, the weight of everything came rushing back. He took his hands out of his pockets, as though in repentance.

Toyin’s business card pressed against his palm in his coat pocket. He left it there and walked past them quietly.

Written by Merit Gogo-fyneface