Page 96 of Cursed Daughters
They couldn’t go to a hospital; what they were doing was illegal. She didn’t ask where they were headed to, how Ebun had gotten the details, whether it was safe. She couldn’t speak at all. Her body was heavy, her movements sluggish; all she could manage was putting one foot in front of the other. A cab slowed for the two young women standing on the side of the road and navigated to the address Ebun had written on the back of her hand. Their destination turned out to be a nondescript house; just one of many on an overpopulated road. Ebun banged on the black gate and they waited. Mo wrapped her arms around herself and looked around to see if anyone was watching them. A couple of minutes went by and Ebun banged on the door again. There was still a chance to run to the waiting cab man, tell him to take them home.
“Ebun—” Mo was interrupted by the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the gate was opened. Ebun entered the darkness and Mo followed suit.
On the other side was a tall man who asked them for their names, to which Ebun calmly replied, “Anu and Bola.” The man told them to wait. A few more minutes went by, and a thin woman came out from the house. She was carrying two plastic bags.
“Where is the money?”
Ebun handed her a wad of cash. Mo had not even considered that payment would be involved. She would have to remember to pay Ebun back.
“When you get home eh, you will drink this. Drink all of it o! And then give it some time. Whatever is inside you will come out.”
“It is safe?”
“I have used it myself. You don’t have to worry.”
Mo had thought they would take the drugs together, but they didn’t speak on their way back home, and then Ebun quietly retired to her room. Mo locked herself in the bathroom, added the tablet to a cup of water, closed her eyes and chugged the bitter pill.
XII
She felt a stabbing pain in her stomach, and an intense pressure. As if…
It was such an innocuous action, taking tablets, that part of her hadn’t really believed anything would happen. But she heard the sound of something hitting the water in the toilet bowl, and she knew this something had come from her. She sat on the toilet seat, clutching herself, and wept. She didn’t have to check, she knew.
She couldn’t tell how long she was in there. The harsh light streaming in from the bathroom window became a soft glow. Finally Aunty Kemi knocked on the door.
“Monife. Are you okay?”
Monife unlocked the door, allowing her aunt entry. Then she returned to her seat.
“What is it? What happened? Did someone hurt you? What happened?”
She was unable to get the words out; she began to sob, and Aunty Kemi dropped to her knees.
“Is it the baby?” Monife did not answer, but she did not need to. They wept together.
She was a zombie for the rest of it. They took her to the hospital, she was examined, her loss confirmed, she was taken home, someone bathed her and fed her ogi, someone laid her on her bed and covered her with a duvet, someone promised to make arrangements for the foetus and someone prayed.
She lay in bed thinking she didn’t even know if it had been a boyor a girl. She had not had the chance to feel any kicks or to have a scan. It could be argued that the baby was a figment of her imagination. And yet the grief was all-encompassing.
She needed him. His voice was distant. His “hello” sounded strange to her ears.
“How have you been?” he said. The line crackled. He had never felt further away. She tried not to cry, but the tears were falling fast and freely. Could she tell him she wanted to die? Oh, how she wanted to die.
“Okay,” she squeezed out.
“Do you need money for…medical checks and things? Or an abortion, if you decide to…”
“That’s what you want?”
“I…No. I just wanted to tell you that whatever you decide, I’ll support you, you know, financially. But I need to be there for Amara. I have put her through a lot.”
“You have put me through a lot.”
“You’re right. But I made a promise to her before God and man. I need to try and honour it.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“Whatever you need from me for this baby, I will provide. But I don’t think we should…keep doing what we have been doing. It’s not fair to Amara and it’s not fair to you.”
