“It has been a year and five days since Mayowa lost her daughter—lost, because she cannot say the other word: suicide. It goes against everything she ever stood for. Suicide damned you in death. But now she wants to believe that anything can be reconciled with Jesus, on anyone’s behalf. So she aims to be of better service to the Lord than anyone among her congregation. She arrives at the Celestial Church of Christ earlier than most others on Sundays. She turns up midweek to clean, replace the toilet rolls, and index new membership cards. She spends hours after service in loud and feverish prayer with her intercession group, while at the same time she quietly implores the Lord to take mercy on the soul of Abiola. Fourteen. Her youngest child. Her baby. How different would she have been at fifteen now? She would be a shade removed from her idiosyncrasies, more outspoken and demanding. She’d take her upcoming exams for granted, argue for black- or blue-colored lipstick, and flip her lid over the fact that she could only see her friends on weekends. Mayowa pines for the now impossible privilege of fighting these battles, and in the strange, uncomfortable nostalgia of loss she relishes the thought of any act of rebellion; she is warmed by the picture of her daughter, older and autonomous, spirited and full of wondrous malcontent.” CONTINUED