The resilient ticking of the second hand within the confines of the wall clock whose features I was yet to unravel was the first indication that I was becoming more aware of my surrounding. And because it was a resounding tick, filling my head with its echo, I believed I was alone. I was yet to feel my body, save for the throbbing at my nape that was now growing subtle as I furrowed my brows, in an attempt to crack an eye open, a subconscious move that was meant to prepare me for the blinding pool of light that washed over me instantly. Intently flickering my eye lids, I gained the momentum to finally let both eyes remain open. A familiar face came into view- plump cheeks, huge nostrils, bright eyes and wide mouth that lifted into a graceful, yet pitiful smile. Only now did I realize how much beauty that mouth lent to her facial structure. I used to wonder how her husband found the courage to kiss her, considering he had a mouth half the size of hers. Now, all that made sense was that she had a mouth like every other person on the planet, and that she had saved my life. That, and my rumbling stomach.
“You were out for what? Twelve hours?”, I could hear the jest in her voice, smooth and harmless. Not like the kind my mother-in-law was so accustomed to. Not the kind I heard in her voice two years ago when she asked why I had birthed an unhealthy child when my mates were having bundles of joys. Not the kind that laced Afam’s tone when he said, ‘You are getting smart, abi?’, when I stopped handing him my salary from the church. And certainly not the kind that filled the atmosphere when I was bundled out of my husband’s house with nothing but my handbag and medium-size Ghana-must-go bag. This one had a friendly edge to it. I wasn’t mad yet. I was still very much capable of recognizing and welcoming positive sarcasm.
“You are a fighter,” were her next words. Now, I wasn’t sure if she was trying to lift my spirit for what was soon to come, or if she was simply being supportive. Whichever it was, my tongue was still too heavy to move, so I cracked a frail smile, swallowing in an attempt to get my throat ready for conversation.
“Thank you for coming.” I managed to lift myself up with trembling hands. Slowly packing my stomach in my hands, I located the potty I had earlier requested for at a corner of the bed. Bending over it, I let the blood flow out for a while before standing upright. Now fully awake, my eyes darted across the room intently, in a frenzied search for the cradle I knew was meant to be right next to my bed.
“Where’s my baby?” I muttered, fear almost crippling me.
“Calm down, mummy”, Ajuma began, as though calling me that would somehow increase my faith, and remind me that as a pastor’s wife, I must not let life get the best of me. When in truth, it only reminded me of all I wasn’t allowed to do- Fast! You do not need ante natal; the blood of Jesus is sufficient! Tell the doctor you cannot allow transfusion! Yeshua would save you! I could hear Afam’s voice ringing in my head.
“Your baby is with her father and the nurses. They would be here shortly.”
I let myself recline back unto the bed. When did he arrive? Had the doctor told him how thunderously I fought to push our baby out of me? Was everything okay with my child? Was he trying to find out whether this one was healthy? What would happen if it wasn’t? My chest, pounding hard against my rib, reminded me of the bottle of poison my husband, Afam, had driven us to buy one Wednesday morning just before he traveled back to Warri to continue the ministry, and the pressure that had followed when I refused to follow through with the euthanasia procedure someone had requested for. I remembered standing motionless above my baby as a huge mosquito perched on his tiny leg just before my mother-in-law pushed his lifeless body aside. The chilly breeze that now washed over me reminded me of her words, cold against my skin like ice, “Let him go. It is for the best. It is easier this way. God has taken him back. Let him rest. You too, rest. Let my son rest as well.” For years, I had had not a single doubt that she had murdered my son. What I always wondered was how she did it.
Because I couldn’t bear a second more without my baby, I ignored whatever it was Ajuma was saying and threw myself unto my feet. I wouldn’t let anyone get close to my baby. Not this time. I was halfway across the room,, with Ajuma trailing behind me, when Afam’s little frame popped into the room, my baby in his arms. Without giving it another thought, I grabbed her from the bend of his arm and held her closely to my chest. The doctor, who I had come to know was also a pastor, smiled from behind, as though she could read my mind. If only she knew the half of it. She led me to bed, and asked the nurse who came in almost immediately to set the cradle down. Now relaxed, my back against the wall with a pillow for comfort, I looked into my baby’s eyes and all that I had endured for the three years of my marriage came washing down in streams of revival and rebirth. Her eyes were as white as mine once were, before life soaked them in the red pool of adversity. Her tongue stuck out in vibrant pink, almost matching her pink-black lips that was fast-filling with saliva. When she cooed, she wriggled her little nose in a way that reminded me of my father, and I laughed. So thunderously, I felt my woes peeling off my back. And in that moment, I knew that this one had come to stay. So, I named her Binyelum- stay with me.
The next two months were the most peaceful I had ever known. I had lots of visitors from the church, and even those from our former church at Ibadan who had come down to the hospital to see me. Gifts and lots of care were the order of the day. I was never alone, even when my husband was away for weeks on ministration. There was always someone checking up on me, or stopping by to spend the weekend. This novel peace I now enjoyed wasn’t just because of my baby girl, but also because we had moved from Benue State to Port Harcourt- long travel-hours away from the woman that had taken it upon herself to rock the foundations of my marriage. But even this little joy I had found for myself was soon to dissipate as quickly as it came.
The troubles returned in multiple folds when Afam’s mother found out about Binyelum, six months after I had had my third, and second surviving child, a boy- Chetachi, when Afam’s younger sister, Akum, travelled in from Abuja to introduce her fiancé to him. All hell was let loose. Not even Afam’s explanation about his revelation from God, stating that no family of ours must hear about the baby until well over twelve months, could suffice. I became the angel of destruction who was sent to break her bond with her son, and to tag her a witch in everyone’s eyes. Since the embarrassment was too hard to bear, she left to stay with Akum, but returned a month after Akum’s wedding, ready for battle- physical and spiritual.
Afam’s mother had a knack for breastfeeding my son. She would run to him whenever he cried and stuff her saggy old milk-bereft nipples into his tiny mouth. I ran mad the first time I caught her, and got beaten up by Afamefuna for complaining about his mother. So, I consulted my mother about it. Not that she was any better at parenting, but it sounded just as strange to her. I resulted to tying my child behind my back all day long. I wouldn’t give her the luxury of holding him, or feeding him. When it got to her, she reported to her son, which only got me more beating. When Chetachi was two years of age, I woke up one afternoon to find him lying naked on the cold floor, Afam’s mother hovering above him as she sat on the couch in front of him. When I rushed to pick him up, she shoved me so hard I fell to the ground in a loud and rib-breaking thump. And then she laughed, “You want my grandson to follow you when you eventually leave this house, right? No! Your plan won’t work. This would ensure he inherits his father.”
“This is my husband’s house, Mama, and I am not going anywhere,” I interjected. “Anyone who wishes to send me away would be the one my God would deal with.” With this, I shoved her aside amidst struggle and snatched my boy from her. On Afam’s return that evening, she began to sob, explaining that I had beaten her up because she touched her grandson, which of course, earned me some more beatings. Nothing I did could make things better, until I suddenly fell ill one night. I had had a nightmare, and once my eyes flew open, my body became numb. It was as though whoever was strangling me in my dream also had control over my physical body. I felt sharp jabs to my chest and tried to scream, but I only began to convulse. Soon, I passed out.
All I remembered when I woke up was that I had been sleeping. It took a lengthy conversation with a member of our church to realise I had spent three months in coma, after which I was referred to a psychiatric hospital, having been diagnosed with neurotic anxiety, post stress trauma and ulcer. I wasn’t eating. But food had been the least of my problems. There was a mountain in my house that won’t move. But I knew God had plans for my life. Either that or the devil needed me to suffer some more, because when I was discharged from the hospital with weekly appointments to my doctor, Afam’s mother came the following day, displaying shock as to my return. “I thought they said you were dead,” she began. “I came to take care of the children.”
“No one took care of your children for you, Mama. And so, I would live to take care of my own in Jesus’ name.” Afam, as instructed by the doctor, after heaping blames on him for my deteriorating condition at the hospital just before I was discharged, asked that his mother returned to Benue, to which she obliged. I didn’t let myself relax, knowing how relentless she was. But with the passing years, visits to the hospital and the joys of motherhood, I was soon able to smile into the mirror.
My last child came unexpectedly. I wasn’t ready. After the sixth week, with brief relapses in my health, I thought I would miscarry. And although Afam suggested we abort, and a part of me was willing to let go, the doctors encouraged us to keep it, and so we did. Ten months later, I looked into her wide glowing eyes that screamed ‘my father’s daughter’, since they looked just like Afam’s. And because I knew she would mend the bond that had long been broken in my home, I called her Ifedimma- something good.
About the Author:
Azeezat Olayinka Okunlola is a Nigerian writer, poet, blogger, columnist and content strategist who has been shortlisted for the Glass Door Poetically Written Prose Contest and featured in Kalahari Review, AFAS Review (Issue 2), Pin Quarterly Journal (Issue 8), The Year of the Poet (Inner Child Press Magazine), Save Our Future Initiative, and Communicator’s League Journal, amongst other literary awards. She is the author of a striking novella- Red Fuse Trip.