Prologue

Banji looked different in remembering. The blue of his button-down shirt, a soft velvet, faded into the light blue sky of Yvonne’s dream. She liked how memories always had room for the fictions of her world. There were no words necessary when remembering, only thoughts and smells and images. The gap between Banji’s teeth looked different here, wider with more room for Yvonne to stick her tongue. They looked whiter, too, like erasure, yet in her memories, there were no mistakes—everything was exactly as it ought to be.

Before he got sick, Banji’s shoulders stood at attention and announced his presence long before he appeared. He was round all over—a round head with round cheeks that matched his round eyes perfectly. His steps were always small and decidedly slow paced; he walked so effortlessly that sometimes Yvonne thought he was gliding. To a stranger, Banji’s slow nature may have signaled uncertainty, but Yvonne saw what others didn’t—he was free. Freedom suited Banji, and he wore it like a cloak. It covered him so well that he walked with the ease of someone who didn’t worry about where they were going because they were certain they would arrive.

Yvonne feared that Banji’s pursuit of freedom had led him to his final state—a mere shadow of himself. Perhaps it was something else, a darkness, heavy and oppressive that clung to his spirit. Freedom often triumphed, but sometimes it lost, and when it did, Yvonne watched how the elephant-sized darkness made Banji’s usually erect shoulders sink like mud. But in her mind and in her memories, Yvonne could preserve Banji as he once was. In this way, Yvonne was the sole guardian of something precious and invaluable—their shared memories. She felt like she was guarding something precious, his memory, and hers too.

Her reminiscing was cut short by the oppressive heat that beat down through the bus windows and onto Yvonne’s forehead. Exhausted by the summer sun, she squinted as she reached frantically in her cloth purse for a napkin. She swore she could feel her skin absorbing the heat, and it seemed to work from the outside in, drying up every last bit of energy she had for this ride to Banji’s mom’s shop.

“Pure water!” a long-limbed boy repeated as he ran alongside the Danfo. Yvonne wondered briefly if she looked as thirsty as she felt. The boy, no older than twelve, reminded her of a picture she loved of Banji when he was young. Mama Deborah, Banji’s mother, kept the photo at her shop.

In the photo, Banji stood at the edge of Lake Victoria, his eyes so dilated there was almost no white space left. Yvonne thought he looked fearful. Banji thought himself brave. Whatever it was, the boy had the same wide-eyed look.

“Keep the change,” she said as she pulled out 200 naira and gave it to the boy. She wasn’t sure what compelled her to say those words, especially because she would need change when she transferred buses to get to Mama Deborah’s shop. He took the money from her hands with a big toothy smile before running towards the next vehicle, calling out again: “Pure water!”

“Madam, you dropped your napkin.”

Yvonne’s attention shifted from the boy to the round-faced girl sitting next to her. She watched as the small girl picked up her white napkin from the floor and placed it inside of her hand. Why am I being so absentminded today? she thought. But she knew why. Even inside the crowded bus, Yvonne could still hear the lisp of the female doctor who said she was six weeks just as clearly as she could see Banji’s eyes, wide like they were in the picture. Just as clearly as she could feel her heartbeat slow.

Banji spoke first, “I think it’s a boy.”

Yvonne looked him in his courage-filled eyes, “It’s a girl.” Yvonne knew then it was too early to tell, but hers was a family of women, so of this she was certain. That was weeks ago, or months maybe, every day since then blended like the onion did with the tomato, a combination of lost individuality and maintained taste. The sudden kick to her stomach served as a reminder of reality: time was coming just as fast as it was going. Yvonne smiled at the thought of new life, especially one that she created with Banji.

Even before she got pregnant, Yvonne noticed the newfound constriction of her favorite jeans. Once, after not seeing each other for two weeks, Banji smiled so big that she thought he was going to say something about her new haircut, but instead he grabbed her face, pinching her cheeks teasingly and smiled.

“If love means all this extra weight, maybe I don’t want it,” she said to Banji, who only rolled his eyes and kissed her in the space right above her nose and between her eyes.

Yvonne smiled at the thought. He was the only man who could do this, ease her into her own liberation. A liberation that was concerned about one thing, and one thing only, on her showing up in the world not as she wanted to be but as she was. What Banji brought to her was a sense of belonging that ran deep like a river. With him, there was always enough air to refill her lungs. Their love was affirming like first place, or last place with an assuring smile, like the last puzzle piece, like a congratulations email, like hearing “I am so happy you are here.” Like the flickering flame of a candle at 3:00 a.m.

There had been other loves, or feelings she once thought were love, but none quite like this. Banji felt like the bowl of porridge that was just right; not too hot, or too cold.

From the outside looking in, no one would expect that the curtain, which hung behind the shop that Mama Deborah owned with her friend, covered up a sitting space big enough to fit a full family. Yvonne smiled at the thought of Mama Deborah’s words when she would walk through the curtains and into the back room of the shop.

“Oya now,” she’d yell, “my daughter is here! Get her some water.”

Every time, like clockwork. The deep baritone of her voice sounded like the jazz songs Banji used to play, like the way her bed called her name on rainy days—like comfort.

There was so much in the room to marvel at, but Yvonne’s eyes landed on Banji first, whose bony frame resembled nothing of the husky man he used to be. From the back, if she didn’t already know it was him, he would have been unrecognizable; from the front, his gaze told Yvonne’s favorite story, how souls remained unchanged even as bodies transitioned.

“Ololufe, my love, come sit by me.” The shake of Banji’s voice let Yvonne know that he was having one of his bad days.

“I was just sitting for the long bus ride,” Yvonne replied. “Let me stand small.”

She hoped Banji could not hear the deception on her tongue, that he could not feel that the truth she spoke was burdened by unspoken lies. She remained certain she was doing what she knew was right, for him and her and them. As if to affirm her, the rapid kicks from inside her stomach also signaled that she had made the right decision. and that the long black cotton dress was the right choice of attire.

“You leave soon…” said Banji, in what seemed like his smallest voice.

“In two days,” replied Yvonne.

“When will you be back?”

“Soon.”

Yvonne spoke with strength she pretended to have. Lying to Banji was not getting easier. It had been months since she told him she lost the baby, months since she started wearing only large, flowing, black dresses, and months since she fell asleep without tears in her eyes.

“Black again?” Kay, Yvonne’s best friend said when she saw Yvonne getting ready to leave the house earlier that morning. “You should only wear black when you’re in mourning.”

Yvonne shook her head up and down before leaving the house to see Banji, “That’s what this feels like.”

—

Excerpt from FLOODING THE RIVER published by Wise Ink Creative Publishing © 2025 by Kehinde Winful. 

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