You lay in bed, too thoughtful to sleep and too tired to rise. The days pass faster to nights and the nights drag slowly to days, you think. You turn, smoothening the expanse of spotless white linen, inhaling the freshness of its newly washed scent. A tear, drops, and then another, and another. But you seem confused as to when and why the sheet underneath your face is damp. A translucent dot, mouka foam peering from beneath, made visible by the wetness caused from your tears. You wipe off the moistness from your face. The tears blur your vision. You lie on your back and try to blink them off. Useless. They start to flow, out through the bounding edges of their source, they trail a path down your temples and finally, getting lost in the dense curls of your head’s garment. A lump forms in your throat, you attempt swallowing it, siring a new form of pain.
It washes over you, head first, like the jarred frequency of an 80’s radio. You’ve found a reason to cry, but you don’t, you weep. Baring your soul, upturning the meager contents of your hollow heart, you weep. Clutching the zebra striped throw-pillow to your bosom as though trying to keep your heart in place, you weep. Time eludes you.
You open your laden eyes to warm lights peeking in through briskly drawn curtains. You try to get up, a little too quickly, you swoon.
Your head suddenly feels ten times heavier, you can barely see two feet ahead of you. Your lids ostensibly bound north and south by swollen mass of flesh. You reach for your phone, swiping until you locate your camera app. You stare dismayed at the grotesque version of your self – a blubbery mess of hair and red.
You remember you have an appointment with the Doctor by 10 am. You glint at your alarm clock, 40 minutes to go. You sit straight, slowing bringing your legs to the ground. You reach for the bottle of aspirin, unscrewing the lid, you throw two tablets into your mouth; wincing at the stinging bitterness. 20 minutes later, you’re all dressed up. Decked in all black, because that’s how you feel…black. You’re too tired to drive, so you dump your car keys in the back of your hand-bag and head to your gate. You hail a taxi, “Mercy Hospital.” You say.
“800 naira madam,” he replies. 300 naira hyped but you’re too spent to haggle. So you get in, sinking into the depleted seat, you tell him to move. Casting a quick glance at you, through the rear-view mirror, he nods and starts the engine.
The nurse at the front desk smiles at you. You don’t feel like smiling back, so you don’t.
“I have an appointment.” You say.
She nods, going through the hospital log-book. “Which of the Doctors?” she asks, and you feel an urge to slap her across the face. It’s obviously written down there you want to say but instead you reply, “Dr Orji” handling her your hospital card, before she asks you more irrelevant questions.
“Please wait –“She starts. But you’re already half-way across the hall, headed for his office.
You can’t bear it anymore; the suspense gnawing at your chest. You say a silent prayer, hoping to God, that the result is negative. If it were otherwise, it would be a dead-end situation, a devil/deep blue sea dilemma. You couldn’t bear the child; it would be a taboo and, you couldn’t kill the child; that would be murder. A child borne to a father of the child. A child you conceived for your father.