‘I don’t understand. Pregnant how? Are you sure?’
‘I’ve not taken a test yet, but I’m late by a week, and I can feel it.’
‘Is it… what’s his name again?’
‘Bayo? Yes.’ As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was pregnant, she’d chosen to get pregnant by a Yoruba boy. Her father would kill her.
‘Why?’
‘I told you. I don’t want to get married yet. I’ll tell my parents I’m pregnant and they’ll leave me alone.’
‘You don’t want to get married so you chose to get pregnant instead? Do you realise how stupid that sounds? Can you take care of a child in this economy? Does Bayo even have a job?’
Zina bounced off the bed and threw the newspaper to the floor. ‘You’re so arrogant, you think you know it all. So tell me, wise one, what should I do instead? You think you’re better because you spend all your free time with Emeka and at that church that is more like a cult. You think his parents will let their precious only son marry a girl from a broken home with a father in the newspapers? You better wake up!’
During my first year of postgraduate studies in the UK, I snuck into a workshop at the Department of Psychiatry. At the back of the hall, I listened to the speaker – a white man with salt-and-pepper hair – discuss how humans react to trauma: some people might display characteristics associated with post-traumatic stress disorder, many more would exhibit resilience or effects that fall outside diagnostic criteria. Panic and anxiety were normal; fragmented and incomplete memories were not uncommon. I took notes feverishly, underlining words and phrases in red pen, in a bid to understand what had taken place that day. What had really happened and why did the memories slip from my brain like cloth through my fingers? How could such a life-shattering event feel so remote yet so present?
It was meant to be a simple errand. We were done with law school exams and in that hapless space of waiting for our final results and the graduation list to be published, to see who hadn’t wasted their parents’ money. Zina and I were barely on speaking terms even though we shared the same living quarters. In the mornings, we tensed to keep our bodies from brushing as we passed each other.
Pastor Kamsi had organised a conference at the other end of the city and needed someone to carry supplies from the church. It was a rainy day, the clouds dusty grey. Emeka had another job interview and couldn’t help. Instead, he paid for a taxi to take me to the hotel where Pastor Kamsi was lodged, with a promise to pick me up once his interview was over.
At the hotel reception, I was told I was expected and handed a key. I was meant to wait when I was done. In the elevator, I hummed along to the music. In the room, I arranged the supplies – brochures, handkerchiefs and bottles of oil – in a corner and sat on the bed to wait.
Fingers like tentacles up my thighs awakened me. There was whirring in my ears, there were grunts like an animal on its way to slaughter, there was pain, then there was white light.
My mother held my hand as we waited. It reminded me of the time we’d waited outside my principal’s office in my third year of secondary school because I’d punched a boy in the face for referring to another girl as a prostitute. Ashewo.
‘Nwakaego, what happened? You’re not the violent type,’ my mother had said to me then.
This time, she sat in silence, gripping my hand too tightly. I stared at the faded walls of the building thinking about how my father would never be caught dead in such a place; marble-floored private hospitals were more his thing. I felt a sudden wetness on my hand and turned to study my mother’s face. Anger and irritation surged in me. What would crying solve? Why was she crying when I couldn’t?
I’d searched for the Nokia 2100 in my handbag when I was sure he was gone. My mother had handed it down to me after Akin had upgraded her to a 6600.
‘Mummy, please I need your help,’ I said, and she was there within an hour.
In the car to the hospital, I heard his voice again, ‘I’m sure you’ve done it before with that boyfriend of yours. Did he make it as enjoyable as I did?’
We hadn’t because I’d wanted it to be special, and Emeka had understood. Special. That word felt so flimsy now.
‘You better not tell anyone, if you know what’s good for you,’ he’d said as he redid his belt buckle. He chuckled, like I’d said something funny. ‘Anyway, you can try, they’ll never believe you.’
Perhaps it said something about me that I’d continued to spend time with him despite the stories that had floated about for years, even though a niggling had persisted at the back of my mind. Was it pride? Arrogance? Did I think I was special? That he wouldn’t – couldn’t – touch me?
‘Next person,’ the nurse called as my phone rang. Emeka’s name flashed across the screen. A phone had been his first major purchase at the end of his youth service, bought with savings from his monthly government allawee. He’d held it up triumphantly, and I’d wanted to rub the top of his head like a proud parent.
‘Nexxxttt!’ the nurse screamed. My mother pulled me to my feet.
In the room, she explained what had happened to the nurse in hushed tones, and I wondered if she felt the shame I felt. My bag vibrated and I pulled my phone out to see ten missed calls, all from Emeka.
‘Ndo, sorry my dear,’ the nurse said to me, pulling out her kit. ‘We have to run some tests and take some samples, then we’ll give you drugs to prevent anything. Just lie down there,’ she said pointing at a gurney in the corner.
A message flashed on the screen as I stretched out on the hospital bed. I would read it later: ‘Where are you?’
‘Are you sure?’ the officer at the police station asked the following day, smacking chewing gum as he eyed me suspiciously.
‘What sort of question is that?’ my mother demanded.
‘Madam na so these small small girls dey do. Instead of them to say that they were with their boyfriends, they’ll say it’s rape when they’re caught,’ he said.
The station smelled like urine, and stale moisture that had transformed into mould climbed the walls.
‘I’m sure,’ I said to stop my mother from railing at the only help we had.
‘How old are you?’ another officer asked. He looked more sombre than his counterpart.
‘Twenty-three,’ I answered.
‘Ahn-ahn! Big girl like you?’ the smacking gum officer exclaimed.
‘Madam, you’ll have to file a report,’ the sombre officer said, pulling out a long dusty notebook from under the desk.
My mother called Aunty Sally who made calls to the absent Divisional Police Officer (DPO) in charge of the station. We paid to fuel the police vehicle that followed us to the church premises.
It wasn’t how I’d imagined our parents finally meeting. I still hadn’t spoken to Emeka. He’d called and called and sent text messages until I’d allowed the handset’s battery to run out, watching the neon-coloured display blink until it went dark.
‘Are you okay? Is something wrong? Please talk to me.’ I could feel the panic in his words; Emeka who never panicked, but I had no idea how to say what needed to be said.
He came to our house, knocking insistently until my mother was forced to politely explain that I did not want to see him. But now his parents knew and soon, he would know too.
