Ogadinma’s body began to fail her the day she came home. Just as she entered the flat, her son nestled in her arms, something cracked inside her and the ground shifted under her feet. Tobe caught her before she slumped to the ground and Aunty Ngozi snatched the baby from her arms.
‘I think she is tired,’ Aunty Ngozi said. ‘She lost so much blood and water. Please carry her to her room so she can rest.’
Ogadinma shivered under her blanket. She did not want to go out of her room, and later, did not want to sit in the same space with Tobe. She shifted away when he was close by and did not meet his eyes when he looked at her. She could no longer endure him. Disgust. It had begun right when he walked into her hospital ward, and had worsened since she came home. Because this time, his mere presence, even the thought of sitting close to him, filled her with revulsion.
On the morning Aunty Ngozi brought them a housegirl called Mercy, she screamed when she found Ogadinma shivering in the corner while her son’s high-pitched cry tore through the room.
‘Your body is hot,’ she said. ‘We have to take you back to the hospital.’
‘I am fine,’ Ogadinma said. She swiped at the sweat that beaded her face, and then went and scooped the baby from his cot. She held him to her chest; she still did not feel any pull towards him. When Tobe decided they would name him Ebuka, after his late father, she did not care about that choice. Instead, she worried about the emptiness that sat inside her belly, how her sleep was often interrupted by the boy’s loud cries. The night before, she had wondered what would happen if she threw him against the wall, and had thought, perhaps, she felt this way because she was also in a lot of pain. Her stitches were healing slowly, and her nipples had chafed and bled when he suckled. The thought of breastfeeding him made her want to cry and cry, because he always latched on her nipples like vice grips, causing unbearable pain to ripple all over her body in rapid waves.
Aunty Ngozi took the baby from her and rocked him until he slept. Mercy hovered by the door and asked Ogadinma if she had any clothes that needed washing.
‘Go and prepare the nsala soup things,’ Aunty Ngozi told Mercy.
‘That girl looks malnourished,’ Ogadinma told Aunty Ngozi.
‘I am more worried about you,’ Aunty Ngozi said. ‘You are still avoiding your husband. What happened has happened, and it will not happen again. But it is not the reason you will be squeezing your face all the time.’
Ogadinma looked away. She knew Aunty Ngozi was trying to appear supportive. She could tell from how often Aunty Ngozi visited, the way she cleaned the house and asked Ogadinma what she wanted to eat, if she rested well. But Ogadinma also knew that Aunty Ngozi was also doing these things because of Tobe, to make up for his shortcomings.
Aunty Ngozi sat beside her. ‘I know this period has been difficult for you. It has also been difficult for all of us. But look at the good side, you have given your husband a son. And this son brought light to this family, or didn’t you know that it was on that day he was born that your husband’s goods were released, eh?’ She touched Ogadinma’s shoulder.
Ogadinma looked at her, at the hand resting on her shoulder. ‘My son was cut out of my body,’ she said.
‘I know, nne. But biko, stop squeezing your face. Your son is still suckling and he can tell that everything is not all right, that’s why he cries all the time,’ she said.
Aunty Ngozi squeezed her shoulder. There were tired bags under her eyes, and her face was ashy, as though she had not rubbed pomade in many days. Ogadinma wanted to hug her, but she didn’t. She knew that Aunty Ngozi was cajoling her, to get her to forgive Tobe. This cajoling was very subtle, the kind that made her feel like she was overreacting for being angry with Tobe. It was why they all let Tobe hurt her again and again. She stood up and said, ‘Aunty, I am tired. I want to sleep,’ and went to the parlour to stretch out on the sofa.
In the following weeks, she would sit in the parlour and wear a wavering smile when her neighbours came by to see her son and tell her how handsome he was, how he had her nose and lips, that he would grow up to become the most beautiful boy, that she and Tobe must buy horsewhips to chase all the girls away, because this pretty boy who looked like his mother, with his fine face and long limbs, would become the toast of the neighbourhood. The neighbours came every day bearing gifts of baby soaps and towels and cream and lotions. Mama Iyabo brought a large blue basin and a sachet of Omo detergent, and she held Ebuka in her arms, her cheeks stretched in the most genuine smile. ‘Your pikin fine well-well like you,’ she told Ogadinma. ‘You don give your husband male pikin, now you go get peace of mind. Even if you born ten girls join on-top, e no matter again, because you don pay the price wey you owe your husband.’ She stayed a little longer, cradling Ebuka in her arms as she told her own story, how she had given her husband five girls, but his people were not contented, and one day, her husband moved out of their flat and she later learned that he married another woman and was living with her in Ketu, that the woman had given her husband two sons. Mama Iyabo smiled as she said this, although her eyes had glazed over with pain. ‘You dey lucky,’ she told Ogadinma. ‘But make you no waste time to born another one. Just do quick kpam-kpam born all the children wey your husband want, so you go kuku rest.’
Ogadinma did not like that advice. She could not yet wrap her mind around the idea of sleeping with Tobe. She could not even talk to him. He came home often, bringing her gifts of new wrappers, new sets of shoes and bags, a golden ichafu which crackled when he brought it out from the packet.
‘Negodị, see. Isn’t it beautiful?’ he told her that evening. ‘Look at the design. I saw it today and knew it would suit your perfectly!’ He laughed nervously, seeming unsure of how to navigate the thicket that had grown between them. He sat beside her for some seconds, both saying nothing.
‘Thank you,’ she finally said.
‘You don’t have to thank me, Nwunye m.’ He sounded high and elated. ‘There is this gown I saw at the boutique down the road. I will go now and buy it. You will like it.’
She simply nodded.
Relief made him seem breathless, and he looked as though he wanted to sink on his knees in thanks to her for bringing down the bristly wall. He held her hand and kissed it, and then, like an excited worshipper eager to please and appease, he hurried off to get the gift for the gods.
After he left, Ogadinma went into the bathroom. The house smelled of baby soap and powder and Dettol. Ebuka woke up and began to cry. Aunty Ngozi sang for him, ‘Onye tili nwa na-ebe akwa,’ her voice carrying down the passageway. She was still singing when Tobe returned with the dress. He splayed it out on the bed, and stood, hands akimbo, smiling, like one would when one had done a good job and expected to be praised for it.
‘It is beautiful, ọ kwa ya?’ he asked Ogadinma.
There was an awkward pause, before Aunty Ngozi hurriedly said, ‘Eh, ọ maka. It is so beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ Ogadinma told him.
When he made to hold her hand, she shifted away from his reach.
Tobe drove her to the hospital on the day Ebuka turned three months old. Ogadinma kept her gaze fixed on the windscreen as they drove to the hospital. Tobe was talking to her, but she was not looking at him. He had gotten another batch of powdered milk, he said, but this time he bought it from an importer because it was becoming too risky to import these things. He was thinking of venturing into the fabric business because there were no laws banning the sales of fabric and it was a pretty good business.
‘Nwunye m.’ He touched her knee. ‘You must forgive me. I love you too much, that’s why it hurts when you do these things that itch my body. Do you hear me?’
When she turned to look at him, she did not smile or nod; she simply looked at him, at the stern lines criss-crossing his forehead, the bulging cheeks and the face riddled with blackheads and stubble. He no longer had any neck to speak of. He seemed so huge. His stomach sat on his lap, pushing against the buttons of his shirt, much bigger than it used to look. She felt the urge to scrub the spot on her knee where his hand had rested. She no longer loved him.
The following morning, after Tobe had showered and left and Mercy had strapped Ebuka to her back with a wrapper, singing him a sweet lullaby, she went to Tobe’s door and pushed it open. For a moment, she stood by the door, glancing around the room, at the bed whose sheets were rumpled, at the ceiling which was still mouldy. She did not know what she was looking for or why she was standing there. She went inside and sat on his bed. Tobe had not asked to have sex since Ebuka was born and she dreaded the day he would. She dreaded what would happen when he stretched over her, if she would puke all over him, or shove him away and scream and scream until the neighbours banged on their door.
She pulled open a drawer. Inside were two stacks of naira notes strung with rubber bands. She took a stack, gazed at the mint crispiness. Sweat pooled under her arms. Her mind was cluttered with confusion. She took the remaining stack. And then she quickly left the room, shutting the door with a bang behind her.
Mercy had laid Ebuka out on the bed when she returned. ‘I will go and wash his clothes now, Aunty,’ Mercy said. Ogadinma noticed that she had filled out, that her cheeks had become fuller.
After the girl left, she got her bag from the wardrobe. She hastily stuffed her clothes and the money into the bag. Her hands shook. Her ears were drumming. She carried the bag out into the passage.
Mercy was lugging the basin full of baby clothes into the bathroom when she saw her. ‘Aunty?’ the girl said, almost a question.
‘I am going somewhere,’ she told the girl. ‘Please take care of him. His food is in his warmer.’
Mercy did not respond, her mouth only hung open. Ogadinma’s legs carried her faster out of the house. She willed for her nerves to calm, but she could not feel calm. Her entire body was shaking, and it did not stop until she had gotten out of the compound and hurried to the junction.
The queue moved too slowly. Soldiers hung around, wielding guns. And when one of them turned to look at her, his fingers gripping a horsetail whip, she held her breath and placed one foot after the other, until she got into the bus. She did not know where she was going, where she wanted to go, but she sat and kept her head down, until the bus eased onto the road and rolled away.