It was the first week of my days as a secondary school student. Uncle Deolu was said to be staying with us for a few weeks because he was having financial problems and he needed a place to stay. I didn't object to the idea, in fact, I liked it very much.

At eleven, I was finally wearing long trousers as my school uniform and returning home by myself without my mother holding my hand.

On the third day of being a secondary school student, I had to go home earlier because I was feeling a headache. So I was excused to go home since I lived very close to school. Part of me was glad too because I knew Uncle Deolu was home and not my father.

When I walked into the living room, I saw him with another man lingering and talking quietly as though the walls of the living room had ears. They held each other arms and the other man was staring at the rug as Uncle Deolu spoke.

When Uncle Deolu saw me, he shifted uncomfortably from the other man and stood up to meet me. I had never seen my Uncle that flustered, he was always the calm one. He ran his fingers through his hair and asked gently why I was home that early?

"I was having headache and I couldn't wait in school."

"It is okay Remi, let me get you food and paracetamol," he said in Yoruba, patting my hair. I turned to the stranger in the living room, he rubbed his palms on his thighs and smiled at me. He pulled me gently to the kitchen while avoiding my curious gaze.

"Who is that?" I asked when we were alone in the kitchen.

Uncle Deolu sighed and said he was a friend of his from Lagos. I didn't ask any further questions because I noticed Uncle Deolu refused to look into my eyes. It was as though he was ashamed of something- something I could not explain.

The man left while I was eating Uncle Deolu's jollof rice and dodo, he waved goodbye to me but his eyes were teary and his voice he managed to control from shaking.

After the man left, Uncle Deolu went into his room and didn't come out. By evening, when my parents were back, he came out with his luggage and said he was leaving.

"I thought you were staying for a few more weeks," Mum said, looking worried.

"Yes, but a business opportunity just presented itself and I have to go. I will let you know how it goes." He said.

"Okay Aburo, make sure you call us o." my father said.

While he was going, Uncle Deolu told me to follow him to the park at Old Garrage. We walked in silence amidst the noisy street of Oshogbo.

"When are you coming back?" I eventually asked.

"I don't know Remi. I need to get my life together." He said.

"But your life is already together." I said. This made him laugh for the first time that day and he patted my hair again.

"I know you're too young to understand some things but I hope you grow up to own yourself and not lose it, like I did"

"I will" I said even though I entirely didn't understand why he said so but they were the best words anyone would ever say to me.

I didn't know his regrets. He had a drinking problem but couldn't he get help? But I promised him I would stay true to myself.

I didn't see him ever again. He still called and sent me birthday and Christmas presents but he didn't show up at my parents' house again. I heard through my father that he decided to leave the country to start a family.

I grew older - keeping to my promise - and I realised why Uncle Deolu was lingering with that man, why they spoke in whispers and didn't stop looking into each other eyes, why the other man left with tears in his eyes that day. Why Uncle Deolu refused to marry, why he stayed hiding and why he drank every night to keep himself from thinking too deeply.

Father told me when I turned twenty five about his childhood with Uncle Deolu. We were both sharing our mutual admiration of Uncle Deolu and how much we had missed him.

"Deolu was always the one who never stopped trying new things. He was always curious. Never content about life, just like you." Father said in Yoruba.

Father's voice trailed off when he said their father caught Uncle Deolu once drinking with the local Osogbo boys on the streets. He said he had never seen his own dad that angry before.

"The scars are still on Deolu's back. He begged and begged but my father didn't listen. My father said he was not angry because he caught his son drinking, he was angry because he caught his son drinking in public with street boys."

It was the first and only deep conversation I ever had with my father. I never grew up to see him as someone I could share my inner burden and curiosity with him. He was not Uncle Deolu. Still, watching him open up about their childhood that airy evening at the balcony made me wish my father and I talked more.

Father's revelation created an answer to my curiosity. His father never told him it was wrong to drink, he only told him it was wrong to drink in public. It was like saying it is wrong to kill but it is better to do it when the whole world is not watching.

I finally understood everything but I wished I did before he left. I wished I told him he didn't have to hide, I wished I told him I knew he drank and I wished I told him it was okay if he didn't want to marry a woman he would never love.

However, all I could remember was the last thing he said to me before climbing the bus that took him to Lagos,

"Don't tell anyone Remi, what you saw. Please, I promise to be a better person."

It was the finality of his words and how wrong they were that haunted me. To be different is to be ridiculed and so he had to hide his true self from the world including those who loved him.

To me, he was already a better person and nothing was going to change that.

Suzan Ajiboye of Suzanwriters.Wordpress.com with the pseudonym BLACKPROWRITER, is a writer from Nigeria deeply interested in African literature, Cultural storytelling, freelance writing, poetry and critical essays constantly proving that writing is definitely limitless.