1.
This chapter is called grief.
“Oyinbo pepper, see how she is yellow and fresh like tomato Jos,” a familiar voice coos from the living room.
You scrunch up your nose as you stare at the stranger in the mirror.
And she stares back at you.
Hooded eyes concealed by exaggerated, arch-shaped brows search for yourself in the reflection, as you slowly drown in a myriad of thoughts. You close your eyes and try to mumble the words of Psalm 31:31, but your tongue and brain have been in constant dissonance lately, so you just stick to the first verse of the Hail Mary. You weren’t a prayer warrior like your mother, but desperate times would have you grasping at tufts of grass to stay afloat, wouldn’t they?
The daunting realization that you couldn’t hide in there forever dawns on you so you quickly rinse your hands and straighten the ostentatious gele sitting on the top of your head. You flash a placid smile at yourself, but it doesn’t touch your eyes – the still blankness in them rush to betray you. The cakey makeup that your sister-in-law wrestled you into getting done was starting to smudge, but you still looked beautiful.
Beautiful Nelo.
That was what you were called growing up. The name had stuck like a moth to a flame. You no longer considered it a compliment but a mere statement. It was just as the sky was blue and the sand was brown – Chinelo was beautiful.
Adrenaline floods your system as anxiety sinks its talons into your sides and your eyes frantically search for your husband among the sea of well-wishers that have now filled every inch of your cramped living room. Your belly precedes you as you gracelessly trudge through the seething crowd, stopping at intervals to respond to greetings from your unending guests. You say Amen to the prayers of healing, while you nod and smile at the Yoruba words you’re unsure of. Chants of “iya ibeji” accompanied by loud cheering mark each of your wobbly steps.
They are here to celebrate you.
You silently repeat these words to yourself, willing them to be true. It was what Folarin had told you last night when you tearfully insisted on cancelling the ceremony.
You lock eyes with Folarin across the room and he gives a reassuring smile. He beckons you to come and sit beside him. He is dressed in the same blue kampala fabric as you, with a pink fila on his head. His presence is sweet; a summery comfort that soothed a small part of you and for a fleeting moment, you feel everything will be alright. You look down at his arms and realize he is holding it.
You freeze.
Your legs become tree stumps and you become rooted in position, unwilling to move. The whole room starts to spin on its axis as a sudden lightheadedness wraps you in a tight embrace. You want to run, but where do you go?
2.
“Rachel”
“Naomi”
“Toluwanimi”
“Tifeoluwa”
“Ayomidun”
“Adedola”
“Adanna”
“Uzoamaka”
“Achalugo”
The alaga rattles out all nine names in one breath over the microphone in her hand, so that each one reverberates loudly in the room. Almost immediately, a clash of tongues bursts into joyful benedictions, highlighting the ethnic range of your families.
“Ibu chim o, ibu chi anya nji ahu uzo” your mother breaks into a loud worship song, her shrill choir voice serenading your guests. Your aunties chime in, lending a melodious soprano to the medley.
“Are you alright?” Folarin asks with furrowed brows.
“I’m fine, why?”
“You have been awfully quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
It is time for pictures. Your husband’s nephew, Bolu volunteered to be the designated photographer for the day. He was awaiting admission at the University of Lagos and had taken up photography as a side hustle. He makes you all stand by the wall facing the television and begins to take pictures.
You look up at Folarin and he is all smiles, holding it up proudly like it was a victory trophy of some sort. His other arm is draped loosely around your shoulders, rubbing circles into your clavicles. You smile at the camera.
“Can we have one of just the mother and baby?” Bolu asks from behind the lens.
Suddenly, dread has your chest in a chokehold, quickly joined by its usual companion, fear. A huge lump forms in your throat and the pungent taste of bile fills your mouth. You feel flustered – all eyes are on you as you look up at Folarin who pushes it towards your outstretched, shaky hands.
It is calm today; no shrills, no crying. Maybe it is not so bad after all. It is dressed in pink–pink overalls, a pink tulle skirt, pink stockings and a pink bow over its pale head. Your mother-in-law was the one who picked out this outfit. She had asked if you liked it and you nodded absentmindedly from the corner of the room. It almost looked cute. It squirms in your arms and the uneasiness comes creeping back – the movement. You look up at the camera and smile. Bolu clicks away and you keep smiling. As that is what is expected of new mothers. Its little feet gently graze the sides of your belly and you lose it.
It all comes trickling back in slides. All you see is red – there is blood everywhere, lots of blood. Your blood. There is pain. Obliterating pain that rips your insides open. The type of torment that leaves you writhing and begging to die because the agony of death is far more honourable than this torture. You feel it, down there. Your palms become sweaty as a sudden uneasiness envelopes you.
Your heart starts to race and you feel your knees begin to buckle under the sudden downward pressure from the weight of it. You try to balance it on your shoulder but you immediately feel it slipping from your hands. Everything happens too quickly. It lets out a loud shriek as it slides down from your grip. You try to save it, but you’re not quick enough.
Swift hands belonging to your husband stop it from landing on the tiled floor.
The whole room goes silent, save for the shoulder-curling wail of it. You had startled it, but at least it was alive. All eyes are on you. Judging you. Everything becomes a blur. You want to bury your head in shame. You see your mother’s face in the crowd. She murmurs something in Igbo. The grimace on her face tells you that she is not happy. It is the face she had when the doctors told her that your father wasn’t getting better and funeral arrangements should commence. You turn and run back into the room but Folarin doesn’t run after you.
3.
Crying awakes you from disjointed sleep, and the jarring realization that everything that happened wasn’t a dream sends you back into a desolate state. Sleep is no longer an escape from this nightmare.
Fresh tears of guilt well up in your eyes as you find Folarin holding it and trying to lull it back to sleep. His back is facing you. You hear him quietly hum a hymn, as he holds it in the crook of his neck, patting its little back as the screams start to descend into hiccups.
“Maybe she is hungry,” you say, startling Folarin who looks back as you shuffle to unbutton the first few buttons of your nightwear.
“Don’t bother Nelo, there’s an extra bottle in the fridge from what you pumped yesterday,” he mutters, his back facing you again.
“But I can just–“
“Go back to bed, Mama and I can handle Adanna,” Folarin orders, his voice growing louder, making you jump.
Your mother-in-law immediately rushes in from the living room, where a couch has been set up as a makeshift bed. There is a spare bedroom but she says she prefers the living room so she can easily monitor it. She stares at you and Folarin for a moment before she collects it from him and tactfully retreats to the living room.
You stare at each other in unsettling silence for a moment until he walks out of the room, the icy coolness in his gaze hitting you by surprise. You hear the front door shut. He must be sitting by the balcony enjoying a smoke, you think to yourself.
You are pushing him back to his vices.
The thought sits heavily on your mind as you perch on the edge of your bed. Folarin had always wanted a girl. That was why you had handpicked the name Adanna after getting a scan. It meant a father’s daughter. He had busted into tears of relief as newborn cries filled the room on that cool December morning. He had turned his glossy eyes to you and whispered in a broken voice that she was here and she was perfect. Your families had camped outside the delivery ward overnight in joyous anticipation – the first grandchild. Everything looked promising.
The first time it was placed on your chest, you were astonished to discover that you had felt nothing. Even as its long lashes fluttered about and its tiny arms reached out to you, you turned away sullenly. Surely, it was the brain fog that accompanied tumultuous labour, but days had turned into weeks and months, yet the sinister feeling didn’t wear off. You dreaded feeding it, touching it or even looking at it.
And people had begun to notice.
You see it in the worrying gazes you get from your church members at Sunday Mass. You notice the hushed voices as you approach the neighbours. You catch the pitiful glances your mother-in-law gives her son each night. You were becoming an enigma, even to your own family. Everyone knew something was wrong.
Horribly wrong.
4.
You are standing by the giant wooden crib, peering down at the white cocoon of pink flesh that lay asleep. Tiny toes peek from the fluffy blankets. The wall clock reads 2:45am. Folarin and Mama are now asleep. The baby mobile calmly hums a slowed-down rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. The entire atmosphere is very tranquil.
Your eyes rest on the huge framed medieval portrait of Mary the Blessed Virgin cradling a baby Jesus that is hung above the doorway to your bedroom – a pictorial depiction of a mother’s love. In that delirious moment, an epiphany hits you:
No child should grow up without a mother’s love.
With this biblical revelation, you know what you have to do – it is crystal clear. You take a deep breath and cautiously shove the pillow in your hands against its face. Muffled sobs can be heard from underneath. It breaks you to do this, but it is for the best. It deserved more than a life bereft of motherly love.
Drowning is melancholic, but maybe the blood will scrub through your insides, washing you clean off this sin you’re committing. You’re helpless against the raging ripples of the endless black waters. You’re dying again. Chills race across your fingertips while your temperature soars higher as you double down, applying more pressure. The sobs have almost completely quieted down. Just one last shove until you swim to the shorelines.…
You find yourself on the bedroom floor writhing in pain from an unsuspecting blow. Folarin is screaming hysterically, mama is crying and speaking in tongues. You see him pick it from the crib, cradling it like the way Mary held Jesus and something blooms in your chest, a foreign warmth you thought had died.
Adanna is alive.
****
You are in a clinical room but you are not sick. Everywhere is white and pristine. A lady in a lab coat walks in and drops a file with your name on the table in front of you.
“I am Doctor Ifeoma Peters, your psychiatrist,” she says with a radiant smile.
Amira Abdul-Azeez is a Nigerian writer, essayist and lover of art in all forms. She was recently shortlisted for the K & L Prize 2024, the fiction component of the SEVHAGE Literary Prizes.
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