The world takes on a sense of unreality as I try to absorb the shock of this news. Dead, just like that? I feel short-changed, cheated. I wonder, illogically, why he had to go and do that without my knowledge. Meanwhile I am given the phone number of his nephew, David (a half-brother or sister’s son), my cousin in actual fact, whom I have never met. I am informed that he’s the one who had been in touch with Uncle Daniel and his family. That he is away at school, somewhere, but only comes home on some weekends.
I save his number carefully. I avoid looking at my fiancé, who waits in the car with the driver. All of a sudden, I can’t wait to get away, and I press some money into my grand-aunt’s hand, feeling it is inadequate. I wish I had thought to buy a few things to bring with me. Foodstuffs, maybe. When she thanks me profusely in broken English, with what sounds like prayers alongside, I worry that when I leave she will be resentful that I came so late.

Back in the car, I deliver the news clinically. Silence reigns as the driver turns the car around so we can head back to Benin City. Turning my head to look out the window, I am confused as to why I am fighting to keep the moisture in my eyes from falling. Yes, it is such an anticlimax, but why tears? For lost and wasted opportunities, perhaps. For holding a grudge against a dead man. So useless. For no second chances.

The last time we visited Uncle Daniel and his family, my mother and I had boarded a luxury bus from Jos to Benin City. It was an exciting trip. We were received at the too-small flat with lots of smiles and inquiries as to how Jos people were doing. As an only child, I found it a different, noisy world with a slew of seven boys running around. Some were dressed in just briefs with distended belly buttons that looked moulded on, as if when they were born the midwife’s assistant had been away and the umbilical cord cut by a half-blind carpenter. I heard later that they eventually got a girl.

I struggle to remember Uncle Daniel’s features from that last encounter. His was a handsome face with skin a bit lighter than my mother’s, a trim moustache and a wide smile as he and my mother talked rapidly in that lilting dialect. Today, with reluctant understanding, I see that trying to provide for his family would have kept his hands full, especially with schooling in the face of his employment issues. I don’t know if that exonerates him, but all that’s left are speculations.

I call David, my never-seen-before cousin, and introduce myself. He never knew my mother—he couldn’t have, and it’s not clear if he knew she existed. When I ask about Uncle Daniel’s widow and children, he tells me he hasn’t seen them in a long time, and that they’ve moved from the last address he had visited. He does say he will do his best to discover their whereabouts and let me know. I thank him and end the call.
I wonder about my cousins, Uncle Daniel’s children, my only full cousins from my mother’s side. If we walked by each other, we wouldn’t even know. I hope they are doing well. One part of me wants to just forget the whole thing and let the chasm grow even wider. The other part—the saner one that still gives a hoot about family—protests. Do I want the cycle of apathy to continue, become worse with the generations? I think of my future children and their right to know. Relatives will mess up—that’s what they do. But surely family is family, after all?