The weeks rolled by like lazy clouds over the village sky. Emezie and I, we moved through those days like we were wrapped in palm fronds of sweetness—sinful, yes, but full of laughter. Each evening, after the clatter of the market and the heat of frying akara under the sun, I would return to his arms. He would greet me like a man greets a long-lost jewel—touching my back, kissing my forehead, whispering, "Asa m, your skin dey drive me mad."
At night, we sinned again and again. Some nights soft and slow like harmattan breeze; other nights fierce and demanding like the first rain after dry season. We knew it was wrong—we weren't married, no dowry had been paid. But love makes even shame wear lipstick. Our secret union continued, tangled in heat and comfort.
Life was looking up. My business was steady, customers smiling and saying "Oluchi, your akara get charm o!" Emezie, ever the dreamer, had started talking about moving to Lagos. He said he had an uncle there who promised him something in a big school—maybe a teaching assistant role or even full-time. The plan was simple: I would go back to school, he would go to Lagos and gather small money, and in four years, when we were stable, we would marry. Children, a home, peace—that was our plan.
But plans are like calabashes floating on water. You never know which wave will turn them over.
One morning, the sun refused to rise with me. My bones ached like I had fought spiritual battles in my sleep. I felt heat crawling on my skin and a bitterness in my throat that made even water taste like metal. I tried to sit up but the room spun like the dancing masquerade in the village square.
"Oluchi, your body is hot," Emezie said, his palm on my forehead.
"I can't go to work tody," I murmured.
He didn't argue. He helped me get dressed slowly, carried my handbag, and led me gently like I was a fragile pot to the nearest pharmacy.
There, inside the pale green walls of that small chemist, with the dusty ceiling fan making a slow kpa-kpa-kpa sound, the test was done.
Pregnant.
Just one word, but it cracked through the roof of our dreams like thunder.
I stared at the result in disbelief, blinking, hoping it would change if I looked at it long enough. My legs gave way, and I sat heavily on the plastic chair, my hands trembling.
"No… no… this can't be," I whispered.
Emezie knelt in front of me, trying to hold my hand. "Oluchi…it seems God is blessing us early."
"Bless?" I choked. "Which kind of blessing comes when you're not ready?"
Tears poured freely. They came from somewhere deep inside—the place where my mother's voice used to echo when I was a little girl. "Oluchi, life doesn't always go as planned. But you"lol be alright."
This was not part of the plan.
We returned home in silence. Even the keke man sensed the mood and didn't play his usual loud highlife music. The whole world felt quieter, like it was watching to see what I'd do next.
Inside, I sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched. My mind screamed with everything I wanted to say, but the words came out slow and angry.
"Emezie… why?" I said finally.
He raised his head. "Why what?"
"Why didn't you ever stop? All those times you entered me without condom. You knew I wasn't on anything."
He blinked. "You didn't tell me to stop."
I laughed bitterly, wiping my face. "So it's my fault now?"
"I didn't say that, but we both enjoyed it, abi?" he replied, his tone sharpening.
I stood up. "So enjoyment is now reason for carelessness? Ah. Emezie, you always turned everything into joke. 'Asa m this, asa m that'. I said we should be careful. You said 'Pregnancy no dey catch you like that.' Now see."
He stood too, suddenly louder. "You're acting like I planned to trap you!"
My eyes widened. "Did I say that?"
"You're twisting everything! Oluchi, I love you. I never once treated you like something cheap. Don't act like I just used you."
My hands flew up. "Then what do you call this? Eh? What do you call this child growing in me without my consent, without preparation? I had dreams, Emezie! School! A degree! A career before children!"
"And what about me?" he roared. "You think I don't have dreams? You think I'm not scared? I'm the one who has to go to Lagos and start all over. I was planning for us too!"
"You were planning," I hissed. "But you weren't protecting."
He turned away, breathing hard, then turned back. "So what? You want to remove it?"
I froze. The words stung like bee venom.
"I never said that," I said quietly.
"But you're acting like this baby is a curse."
I broke then. "Because it feels like one, Emezie! Everything has changed. You're still standing. I'm the one whose body will swell. I'm the one who will stay behind. I'm the one who will carry this child alone if you go to Lagos!"
Silence dropped like a hammer.
He came close again, calmer this time. "I'm sorry, Oluchi. I didn't think… I didn't think it would be like this."
"You didn't think," I repeated. "That's the problem."
He took my hands. "I'll stay if you want. I won't go to Lagos."
"No," I shook my head, bitter and tired. "Don't stay because you feel guilty. Stay because you want this child. Because you want me, not just the body you entered at night."
He pulled me into an embrace then, his arms tight around me. But I didn't hug him back. My heart was too heavy.
That night, we didn't talk much. I curled on my side of the bed. He lay on his. The space between us felt wider than the Niger River.
The months crept slowly like a pregnant tortoise crossing a dusty village path, each day weighed down by the burden in my womb and the silence in my heart. Word had spread through our narrow compound and beyond that Oluchi, Mama Beatrice only granddaughter, was carrying a child. Some said it was joy's reward after years of sorrow. Others whispered with lowered voices and sideways glances, wondering whose child it truly was, since no wine-carrying ceremony had been performed, no palm wine shared, no kolanut broken between families.
Sister Anuli was overjoyed, as though the child was her own. Every market day, she visited with her wrapper folded over her waist and a basket of fresh ugu, okporoko, and ripe tomatoes balanced on her head. She would hum old lullabies as she stirred steaming pots of ofe onugbu or ogbono in my small kitchen, her laughter rich and warm, filling the empty corners of our house. Sometimes I watched her from the bedroom doorway, my hand resting on my round belly, wondering how she still carried such lightness in her heart.
I, Oluchi, did nothing. No akara frying. No early morning hawking. My fingers forgot the feel of firewood, of pepper skin, of palm oil stains. My feet no longer danced to the rhythm of village life. I was a still tree in the heart of a restless forest. Emezie—dear, ever-patient Emezie—took on everything. He cooked. He swept. He washed. He bathed me when my back ached too much to bend. He took me to the antenatal clinic at the missionary hospital, sitting through the waiting hours like a quiet dog outside a meat seller's stall.
But we barely spoke.
Our silences were not violent, no. They were quiet as the evening harmattan breeze, but just as cold. I avoided his eyes. I didn't want to talk to him—not about the pregnancy, not about the future, not even about the weather. Something had shifted between us, like a canoe slowly drifting away from the shore. He didn't complain, but I saw it in the way he sometimes sighed too long or lingered by the door before coming inside. Even when the doctor said that intimacy could help ease delivery, I looked away. I didn't want his touch, not anymore. My body, once a home, now felt like a prison.
I began to visit Mama's grave more frequently, as if her spirit could still offer the guidance her arms once gave. I would sit there, legs folded, fingers buried in the soil, tears washing dust from my cheeks.
"Mama," I would whisper, "biko, give me strength. My chest is heavy. My heart is weary. I don't know how to be anymore."
There were days I would stay until the sky turned orange and the air smelt of roasted corn from faraway compounds. I wanted her to talk back. I wanted her to tell me that I was not alone. But graves do not speak.
Still, Emezie tried. Oh, he tried. He brought me fruits from the market, rubbed my swollen feet with shea butter, whispered gentle words when I allowed him. He never forced me to speak. He cooked yam porridge with scent leaves the way I liked it, sometimes adding crayfish I didn't even tell him I craved. He was the man, the anchor, the one carrying the storm on his back.
And I—I was the storm.
The night it started, I knew something had changed. It was a Tuesday, the moon was full and fat like my belly. I had craved ofe nsala that morning, the kind Mama used to make with thick catfish and just the right amount of uda and utazi. When Emezie returned, he had brought ofe ogbono instead.
I frowned when I removed the pot lid and saw the yellow slick.
"I told you I wanted white soup."
"Oluchi, the fish seller didn't have fresh catfish. I thought this one would still help your stomach."
"You thought?" I turned, belly heaving, voice sharp. "You thought? So now you are the one to decide what I should eat?"
He stepped back slightly, eyes tired, arms still holding the tray of fruits. "I'm just trying to help."
I didn't respond. I pushed the pot aside and went to bed hungry.
That night, the cramps came.
It started like a whisper—small, sharp pains in my lower back. I thought it was the weight of the baby again. But by midnight, the pain had become thunder. It tore through me like a machete through unripe plantain. I screamed. I screamed so loudly that the neighbours knocked, asking if armed robbers had come. Blood soaked through the wrapper tied around my waist. Emezie lifted me in his arms, barefoot, and ran into the night like a madman.
At the hospital, time moved in fragments. Nurses shouting. Cold metal tables. Lights too bright. My legs spread. My screams echoing off white walls. Then silence.
Too much silence.
When the doctor returned, his face already told me what his lips were yet to say.
"I'm sorry," he said gently, placing his hand on my arm. "The baby is gone."
Gone.
That word echoed in my chest like a bell rung in an empty church. My hands moved to my belly. Flat. Soft. Hollow.
I did not cry.
Tears are for the living.
For three days, I said nothing. I lay on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses. Emezie came, sat by my side, held my hand. Sometimes he prayed. Sometimes he cried. I turned my face away.
On the fourth day, when they discharged me, I walked home without speaking. Neighbours gathered, some offering condolences, others bringing food we would not eat. Sister Anuli wept loudly and tore her wrapper at the gate.
But I—I felt cursed.
"This is not just loss," I told myself. "It is a punishment."
What had I done wrong? Had I offended the gods? Had I spoken ill to an elder? Was it Mama's spirit refusing to bless my womb?
At night, I would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, the echo of a baby's cry still ringing in my ears. Emezie would try to hold me, but I would push him away. One night, I shouted at him.
"Why didn't you buy the white soup I asked for?! Why?! Maybe this wouldn't have happened if you just listened!"
He looked at me then—not in anger, but in sorrow so deep it broke my heart anew. His lips trembled before he whispered, "I'm sorry, Oluchi. I thought I was doing my best."
"And your best wasn't enough," I said, bitterly, before storming into the other room.
After that, silence returned.
Not the quiet one from before. This one was heavy. Sharp. Dangerous.
We stopped eating together. He would cook and leave the food covered. I would wait until he slept before I touched anything. We moved like shadows under the same roof. Our laughter was gone. Our warmth, buried with the baby.
One morning, as the cock crowed and the first light broke through our window, I sat at the edge of the bed and said, "Maybe we should go our separate ways."
His back stiffened. He was tying his shoe, but his fingers froze.
"What did you say?"
I swallowed hard. "Maybe… maybe we're not meant to do this. Maybe this pain is a sign."
He turned slowly, eyes red. "You want to leave?"
"I don't know," I said, my voice cracking. "I feel broken. Like I'm walking through glass every day. Maybe if we part, the pain will scatter."
He looked at me long and hard. Then nodded.
"Maybe you're right."
That afternoon, he packed a small bag and left to Sister Anuli's house. He said I needed space. No shouts. No accusations. Just silence and soft footsteps. I watched him go from the window, tears finally falling.
And that afternoon, the house felt empty.
I sat on Mama's grave by evening, knees tucked under my chin, heart shattered like a broken calabash.
"Mama," I whispered, "I have lost everything. My child. My joy. My friend. If curses exist, then surely one lives in me. But if there's any grace left in your spirit, I beg you—don't let this be the end of my story."
I thought he had gone but he didn't leave that afternoon as planned.
Instead, he returned by night, his steps heavy, his chest rising and falling like a man who had walked long and far, though he'd only been gone a few hours. I was sitting by the fire pit in the backyard, peeling cassava listlessly, the sun dipping behind the palm trees, leaving a quiet gold over everything.
He stood there, staring at me.
"I'm not going to leave, Oluchi."
I looked up slowly. My eyes stung from the smoke and everything else I had held in.
"You already left," I said, not unkindly.
"I walked out, yes. But not away. There's a difference."
I returned to peeling the cassava. "Why are you here, Emezie?"
He stepped forward. "Because I love you. And because I know this pain—it's not just yours. It's ours. And if we run away from it, we'll carry it like a yoke into the next place we go."
I sighed, cassava shavings gathering around my feet. "What do you want from me, then? You want to sit here and watch me grieve every day? You want to stay in a house where silence speaks louder than any words?"
"I want to stay," he said softly, "because I still believe something good can grow out of all this dust."
Something in me trembled. I didn't speak. I didn't have the strength.
He sat beside me on the low stool. For the first time in many weeks, our knees touched.
"I don't blame you for the baby, Oluchi. Not even for the things you've said. I blame myself more than you'll ever know. But if we start again, slowly, just slowly, maybe the land will be soft again. Maybe we'll find joy."
But fate, as it often does, had its own plans.