the world than the first—comes to earth with great reluctance and remains with greater effort, homesick for the spiritual realms. On the eve of their birth into physical bodies, this skeptical second twin says to the first, “Go out and see if the world is good. If it’s good, stay there. If it’s not, come back.” The first twin Taiyewo (from the Yoruba
to aiye wo
, “to see and taste the world,” shortened
Taiye
or
Taiwo
) obediently leaves the womb on his reconnaissance mission and likes the world enough to remain. Kehinde (from the Yoruba
kehin de
, “to arrive next”), on noting that his other half hasn’t returned, sets out at his leisure to join his Taiyewo, deigning to assume human form. The Yoruba thus consider Kehinde the elder: born second, but wiser, so “older.”
And so it was.
Kehinde wasn’t lesser, less outgoing, less social, “in the shadow” of Taiwo, a shadow himself. He was something else. From somewhere else. Otherworldly like Ekua. An empath like Fola. And for whatever it was worth, Kweku saw now with awe, like his father (and
his
father before him).
• • •
Kehinde signed neatly in the lower right corner. Kweku touched his shoulder. “Why, thank you, Mr. Sai.”
“You’re welcome, Dr. Sai.” Kehinde’s smile quickly faded. The word
doctor
hung between them like an odor in the car. Dogs began a canon of cacophonous barking. Kehinde looked out at the house a little longer. The light went off in Taiwo’s room. Then on, then off. Like a signal. Then on. Kehinde turned back to Kweku, turning back into a black hole. “Your pen.”
“Yours.”
“But it’s—”
“Keep it.”
“Are you sure?” Turning it over.
“I’d be honored for you to have it.”
“Thank you, Dad.” Another odor.
Kweku reached over and touched Kehinde’s face, rubbing gently with one finger the space between his brows as he often did with Fola, trying to rub away her frown, though it never really worked and didn’t now. “It must be time for dinner.” Though it wasn’t. Thirty minutes yet. “Your mother will want to hear all about class. You go ahead.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Just a second.”
Kehinde nodded, not smiling. “Your painting,” he said.
He rolled it up neatly and handed it to Kweku. The cameraman filmed: The Intelligent Parent Falls Dumb. Kweku gripped the painting as one does when one means
I’ll treasure this always
but can’t find the words. The words that he found were, “If you could maybe not mention—”
“Don’t worry. I promise. I won’t.”
And then silence.
“Okay,” said Kweku.
“Okay,” said Kehinde. He waited for a moment then got out of the car.
“I love you,” said Kweku, but the door closed on “I.”
Kehinde didn’t hear and went inside.
• • •
He waited one moment, then backed down the driveway. He didn’t stop driving until Baltimore, seven hours, straight, I-95 stretching out like dark ocean. Flat. Driving without seeing, under moon, into black. He checked into a hotel near Hopkins Hospital, one he remembered. When he called home at last she was sobbing, but clear. “Kehinde won’t tell me what happened, says he promised. You’re scaring me. What happened? Where are you? What’s wrong?”
He said very simply that he was sorry and he was leaving. That if she sold the house at value, she’d have enough to start again. That it was quite possible that he had never actually deserved her, not really. That he’d wiped them out trying to beat the odds.
“Beat the odds. What does that mean? Are you in danger? Have you been gambling? Are you in
physical
danger? Where are you?”
(He was nowhere.) He said it was for the best and that again he was sorry. That she’d be better off without him. “I’m letting you go.”
“What does that mean?”
All his love to the children.
“When are you coming home?” she wept.
He wasn’t.
13.
Sixteen years on he stands bent at the waist with his
to aiye wo
, “to see and taste the world,” shortened
Taiye
or
Taiwo
) obediently leaves the womb on his reconnaissance mission and likes the world enough to remain. Kehinde (from the Yoruba
kehin de
, “to arrive next”), on noting that his other half hasn’t returned, sets out at his leisure to join his Taiyewo, deigning to assume human form. The Yoruba thus consider Kehinde the elder: born second, but wiser, so “older.”
And so it was.
Kehinde wasn’t lesser, less outgoing, less social, “in the shadow” of Taiwo, a shadow himself. He was something else. From somewhere else. Otherworldly like Ekua. An empath like Fola. And for whatever it was worth, Kweku saw now with awe, like his father (and
his
father before him).
• • •
Kehinde signed neatly in the lower right corner. Kweku touched his shoulder. “Why, thank you, Mr. Sai.”
“You’re welcome, Dr. Sai.” Kehinde’s smile quickly faded. The word
doctor
hung between them like an odor in the car. Dogs began a canon of cacophonous barking. Kehinde looked out at the house a little longer. The light went off in Taiwo’s room. Then on, then off. Like a signal. Then on. Kehinde turned back to Kweku, turning back into a black hole. “Your pen.”
“Yours.”
“But it’s—”
“Keep it.”
“Are you sure?” Turning it over.
“I’d be honored for you to have it.”
“Thank you, Dad.” Another odor.
Kweku reached over and touched Kehinde’s face, rubbing gently with one finger the space between his brows as he often did with Fola, trying to rub away her frown, though it never really worked and didn’t now. “It must be time for dinner.” Though it wasn’t. Thirty minutes yet. “Your mother will want to hear all about class. You go ahead.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Just a second.”
Kehinde nodded, not smiling. “Your painting,” he said.
He rolled it up neatly and handed it to Kweku. The cameraman filmed: The Intelligent Parent Falls Dumb. Kweku gripped the painting as one does when one means
I’ll treasure this always
but can’t find the words. The words that he found were, “If you could maybe not mention—”
“Don’t worry. I promise. I won’t.”
And then silence.
“Okay,” said Kweku.
“Okay,” said Kehinde. He waited for a moment then got out of the car.
“I love you,” said Kweku, but the door closed on “I.”
Kehinde didn’t hear and went inside.
• • •
He waited one moment, then backed down the driveway. He didn’t stop driving until Baltimore, seven hours, straight, I-95 stretching out like dark ocean. Flat. Driving without seeing, under moon, into black. He checked into a hotel near Hopkins Hospital, one he remembered. When he called home at last she was sobbing, but clear. “Kehinde won’t tell me what happened, says he promised. You’re scaring me. What happened? Where are you? What’s wrong?”
He said very simply that he was sorry and he was leaving. That if she sold the house at value, she’d have enough to start again. That it was quite possible that he had never actually deserved her, not really. That he’d wiped them out trying to beat the odds.
“Beat the odds. What does that mean? Are you in danger? Have you been gambling? Are you in
physical
danger? Where are you?”
(He was nowhere.) He said it was for the best and that again he was sorry. That she’d be better off without him. “I’m letting you go.”
“What does that mean?”
All his love to the children.
“When are you coming home?” she wept.
He wasn’t.
13.
Sixteen years on he stands bent at the waist with his
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