No other vacation had been so eventful in my life. I stayed with my uncle who often told us true stories. He narrated this story to me while Chike was sleeping on the couch. I later decided to do a sketchy documentation with tears in my eyes. I wrote this using the first person narrative so as to bring out the story’s essence. It goes thus:
Though I resided in Nsukka; the town which played a pivotal role during the war, I felt something which was more than a déjà vu. Several events may have come through in 1990 but my wife’s bulging belly interested me the most.
Being successful lecturers had attracted petty gossips that surrounded our existence in the Campus. We would always resign to the will of God and to our fates by taking the rumours we heard about us with a pinch of salt. At Eni-Njoku Street where we lived, women would often gather in small groups to discuss what we always thought to be about us. From our balcony, my wife would often look down at half-a-dozen women standing under a tree and discussing in low tones like chirping birds but with droplets of tears hanging just beneath her eyes. She would run to me while crying with touching words in her mouth, ‘Di, they are talking about us’. I would always let her come into the warmth of my torso while I consoled her. Each time I consoled her, I was also consoling myself. Our childlessness bothered me more but I would always try to wear my cloak; that pride of an African man. I was beginning to explore other options while letting fate resign to itself.
When I got into my office on the first day of the semester, I began to realise that most things women did, men also did. Everyone was in resumption mood as most mathematics lecturers shuffled around offices aimlessly. A large section of the students had not resumed for the new session. Female lecturers exchanged greetings while discussing their exploits at last month’s August meeting. Later that afternoon, while going into the clerical section of my department, I noticed that my secretary and the department’s messenger were in a tête-à-tête. I decided to monitor proceedings from outside by hiding behind the gray wall which preceded the polished door. They chuckled and discussed about my wife’s barrenness and how it had affected my work ethic. I didn’t go into the clerical room anymore rather I went back to my office to produce some documents from my LaserJet printer. When the duo came into my office at my behest, I gave them letters which were enclosed in khaki envelopes. They had to proceed on ‘compulsory indefinite leaves’. They left my office with bowed heads and looks of dejection.
When I decided to visit a juju man so as to ascertain the unfortunate fate which had befallen our 15-year old marriage, Chinenye had told me to remain calm and steadfast in my faith. She even reminded me of the biblical story of Sarah and her husband Abraham. I knew that I would go ahead with my plans even if a saint or an angel had been sent to preach to me. The day I left to see Agbarume, the powerful juju priest at Igboeze, I had a ghastly motor accident which nearly cost me my life. While I was admitted into the critical unit of the casualty ward at Bishop Shanahan hospital, I waited for family and friends to share in my pains but it was only my mother and my wife, Chinenye that were able to meet me at my point of need. I returned to my house a week later feeling repentant and apologetic to my wife for ignoring her advice. She said she had forgiven me and planted a kiss on my forehead. We continued to live our lives without children that we soon began to get accustomed to the rumours. Months later when Chinenye began to feel nauseated so often, I took her to Nduka, a doctor friend of mine for typhoid and malaria tests. Being a family-friend, he did the tests I required of him but went ahead to do a pregnancy test out of his ingenuity. Other tests were negative but for the pregnancy test which turned out positive.
Nine months later, she went into the pains of labour but never came out alive though Chike was able to make it to this cruel world.
AUTHOR:
Augustine Ogwo lives in Ikoyi, Lagos.
Touching. Healing. Mending. In its own way.
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