The shape of her absence - by David Lilly-West

Tuesday afternoon arrived with heat heavy enough to slow the streets. The sun clung stubbornly to Lagos, pressing itself against every surface. Somto had just returned from his final class at Nile University, his shirt sticking lightly to his back. He hated staying on campus. The noise. The congestion. The feeling of being trapped.That was why he lived instead with his billionaire uncle, a real estate mogul—Mr. Femi Lawson—a man whose heart always seemed too large for one body.“Uncle Femi!” Somto called out as he stepped into the house, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I’m back from school.”Footsteps followed. Uncle Femi appeared from the hallway, sleeves rolled up, faint traces of dust still clinging to his shoes from a long day at one of his sites.“My boy,” he said warmly, pulling Somto into a brief hug. “You look like school is trying to finish you before graduation.”Somto laughed tiredly. “Campus is always hotter than the rest of Lagos. I swear it’s cursed.”Uncle Femi chuckled, motioning toward the living room. “Sit. Tell me—how was school today?”He asked casually, like a friend checking in, not a man whose name could move markets.Somto dropped onto the couch. “Same classes. Same stress.”He paused, eyes drifting.“But I saw someone today.”Uncle Femi raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Here we go.”“There’s this girl,” Somto said. “I don’t even know her name. But when I saw her, the whole place didn’t feel so terrible anymore.”A smile tugged at Uncle Femi’s lips. “That’s how it starts. One glance and your peace resigns.”“Did it happen like that for you?” Somto asked.Uncle Femi hesitated. “Something like that.”Somto leaned forward. “Uncle… you’ve had everything. Money. Respect. Options.”Then, quieter:“Why did you never get married?”The room shifted.Uncle Femi’s smile stiffened. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. For a moment, the house felt too large, too silent.“There was a woman,” he said finally. “Her name was Morayo.”Somto stayed quiet.“I met her on a night that felt borrowed,” Femi continued. “A small bar. Nothing special. The Night We Met was playing. She was listening to it like it was speaking only to her.”He looked toward the window, as if the past lived somewhere beyond it.“She loved me before the buildings. Before the money. When all I had were plans and hunger.”He exhaled. “Morayo loved with intention. I loved by building.”He told Somto about shared meals in half-finished apartments, about dancing in the living room, about laughter that didn’t need permission. He told him how Morayo noticed everything—his silences, his restlessness—and how he mistook providing for presence.“As my world grew,” he said quietly, “hers began to shrink.”Somto swallowed. “You hurt her.”“I scared her,” Femi corrected.He told him about the night she stood in the doorway, bag packed, fear trembling behind her strength.“She said she was scared of disappearing beside me. Said love shouldn’t feel like vanishing.”His voice lowered. “Instead of staying… she left.”“Did you go after her?” Somto asked.“I was too busy convincing myself I hadn’t failed.”Silence stretched between them.“Some loves don’t end,” Femi said at last. “They just lose their place.”Somto thought of the girl on campus. Thought of how easy it was to confuse ambition with neglect.“What should I do,” he asked softly, “if someone I love starts pulling away?”Femi looked around the house—the space, the quiet, the echoes money couldn’t fill.“Choose presence,” he said. “Before success convinces you it can replace it.”Then, almost to himself:“Now I sit in my big house and feel the weight of her absence, knowing fully well I’d never let go of her memory.”The phone rang.The sound felt wrong—too sharp.Uncle Femi frowned at the screen. An unknown number.He answered.“Hello?”A pause. A breath.Then a voice he knew better than his own.“Hey,” she said.“My love.” The world narrowed.For a moment, Uncle Femi couldn’t speak. His throat closed around the years he had buried carefully beneath work and wealth.“Morayo?” he whispered.Silence answered him—thick, trembling.Then the line went dead.The call ended as suddenly as it began.Uncle Femi stared at the phone long after the screen went dark.Somto stood slowly. “Uncle… was that—”Femi shook his head, a small, helpless motion.“I don’t know,” he said. “But some voices never leave you. They just wait.”He placed the phone down gently, like something fragile.Outside, the evening settled in.Inside, the house held its breath—and for the first time in years,Uncle Femi wondered whether love had returned…or whether memory had simply learned how to call.

Other insights from David Lilly-West

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons