Lara lived by an unspoken code, one she had crafted over the years as a single woman longing for a child. She avoided looking at children for too long, steered clear of conversations about them, and never admitted, even to herself, how much she yearned to be a mother. In Lagos, where family was everything and a woman’s worth was often measured by the laughter of children in her home, she carried her longing like a hidden scar unseen but deeply felt.
On her walk home from work every Friday, she had started making a detour to the National Museum in Onikan. It had become her little ritual, a way to pass the time before the weekend stretched out before her, empty and quiet. That was where she first saw it, a sculpture of a mother cradling her baby, a relic from an ancient Yoruba kingdom. The woman, though carved from stone, radiated warmth and contentment. It was as if the sculptor had captured the essence of motherhood itself. Lara was mesmerized. She returned week after week, standing before the statue, lost in her thoughts.
She never stayed too long, wary of the silent judgment of others. In Lagos, women her age were expected to be mothers, or at least to be actively working towards that goal through marriage, prayers, or the intervention of well-meaning aunties. But here she was, unmarried, alone, gazing longingly at a stone child. She feared what people would think if they noticed.
One Friday, as she stood before the sculpture once again, she became aware of a presence beside her. A man, lean and slightly disheveled, smelled faintly of roadside suya and mint gum. He looked from the statue to her and then back again before speaking.
“Do you like it, or is it making you sad?” he asked, his voice rough yet oddly kind.
Lara turned to him, startled. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been standing here for a while,” he said. “Just wondering if you’re admiring it or if it’s reminding you of something.”
She frowned. Who was this man, and why did he think he could read her? She should have ignored him, but something in his tone made her answer.
“It’s art,” she said, feigning indifference. “It’s supposed to make you feel things.”
He tilted his head as if considering her words. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “I think it’s just supposed to be interesting.”
Lara scoffed. “You don’t know much about art, do you?”
He grinned. “Not really. But I do know when someone looks like they’re carrying the weight of the world.”
His words unsettled her. She had spent years perfecting the art of deflecting pity, of making herself appear content. Yet here was this stranger, peeling back her defenses with a few simple sentences.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You know, there’s a huge bronze horse in the next room,” he said. “If you think this sculpture is something, wait till you see that.”
She hesitated. This was usually the point where people grew uncomfortable and walked away. But he wasn’t leaving. He was offering her an escape, a distraction.
“Alright,” she said, surprising herself. “Show me this horse.”
And with that, they walked together to the next exhibit, leaving the mother and child behind, but carrying something unspoken between them.
