My father had this song he played almost every Sunday,

usually when NEPA had taken light and the house was quiet.

I never knew the name; I just knew the voice.

He would sit outside with his plastic chair,

one leg crossed over the other, listening like the song owed him something.

I was more interested in playing football with my brothers.

Sometimes Mama would shout from inside,

“Abeg, reduce that thing,”

and he would laugh and leave it playing.

I didn’t know then that people could hide inside music.

Years later, I heard that same song in a taxi,

and for a moment, I was back in that house

the old chair, the cracked wall, Mama’s voice from the kitchen,

my father’s slippers beside the door.

Funny.

I had forgotten the house, but the song remembered it for me.

Maybe that is what music does

it keeps a part of us alive until we are ready to remember.