The rain in Lagos did not fall so much as arrive — all at once, with the confidence of something that had been planning its entrance for hours. Temi stood under the carport of her mother's house and watched the street turn to river, and thought, not for the first time, that her mother would have found this funny.
She had read thirty-eight of the forty-one letters by now. Three remained, including the nameless one, and she had begun to understand that she was not avoiding them out of fear exactly, but out of a reluctance to finish a thing that had become, without her noticing, the last conversation she was still having with her mother.
The contractor had called twice about the roof. She had not called back. There were practical griefs and impractical ones, and lately she could only carry one at a time.
Inside, the house smelled the way it always had — old wood and her mother's lavender soap, a smell that had outlasted the woman who chose it — and Temi found she could stand in the hallway for whole minutes without doing anything at all, just breathing it in like a held note.
When the rain eased, she went back to the drawer. Two letters left. She picked up the one addressed to Dele, and began, finally, to read.