When the Phone Stops Ringing

Babs noticed the silence before he admitted it. By 11:47 a.m., his phone had not rung once. No missed calls, no “Sir, kindly assist,” not even a “Happy new month sir” WhatsApp greeting from someone trying to remain visible. He turned the phone face down on the bedside table to catch his breath. 

“Who’s there?” he barked at a soft knock. 

Fatia entered with breakfast: gently steaming ogi, crisp and golden akara, a small glass of honey placed precisely beside a can of milk. She arranged it carefully, like always. 

“Oga, you didn’t eat last night food.” 

He didn’t answer. 

There was a time when he couldn’t hear himself think in the house. Security radios crackled, cars moved into the compound at odd hours, and his PA practically lived in the sitting room, fielding calls from governors, ministers, lawmakers; men who once waited on him but now kept him waiting. 

His phone used to heat up in his palm. Some days, he would scroll through missed calls, but not anymore. 

When his father was President, the house overflowed. Schoolmates who once ignored him suddenly became “my brother.” Invitations arrived without asking, parties parted for him. 

The influence was loud, but its exit was silent. 

He noticed the decline when his father’s tenure ended. Fewer calls, less urgency, but still enough to sustain the illusion. Then came the illness, the hospital corridor, and the state burial. The drums were loud that day, the tributes poetic, and the condolences heavy with adjectives. 

After the burial, the silence began in earnest, steep and ruthless. 

The PA resigned two months later, saying he wanted to “explore private opportunities.” Babs knew what that meant. 

Last Friday, he sent a message to a minister about a property his wife and sister were considering. Once upon a time, that minister would have arrived personally with all the documents, with deference. Seven days passed, and there was no response. He checked the message thread again. It was delivered and read, yet no response. 

How had he mistaken proximity to power for possession of it? He had believed the handshakes were loyalty, the laughter was friendship, and the access was affection. It was traffic, and his father was the highway. And highways are busy until they close. 

Babs picked up his phone and stared at his reflection in the black screen. He thought of the scholarships he could have sponsored, the small businesses he could have quietly backed, and the calls he ignored because they came from people who had nothing to offer in return. 

He had spent his season feeding relevance instead of planting a legacy. 

The compound was no longer filled to the brim. The influence he thought he wielded had left the building. And for the first time in his life, the silence around him was honest. 

In hindsight, he wished he had used that season more wisely, impacting real lives instead of empowering clout chasers and social climbers. Many of them were already busy hobnobbing in the corridors of the new powers that be. 

What a missed opportunity, he thought.