Two years had passed since Amos left Nigeria. I was missing him so bad, that I couldn’t wait for him to get back home in time for Christmas.
“How are the twins?”
“The twins are fine.” My response came.
The loud ringing of his cellphone jolted him. “I will call you back.” he said and hung up.
My phone went beep.
A bit of sadness strung my heart, and I heaved a sigh, rubbing my cheeks.
It was lonely being in the mansion with only the kids. Though I had everything, it was boring being holed up inside.
Two years. Two years… going to three!
The kids kept asking me when their dad would return. It seemed I wasn’t the only one missing him. We all needed him, and I prayed the Lord brought him home safe.
“I’d be coming back next week—” he announced on the phone.
The twins came forward on hearing me yell. “Mommy, what is it?”
“Daddy is coming back,”
“Yay!!! Can we talk to him?”
I handed them the phone and they began talking.
“E kaasan, daddy,”
I left to tend to the dishes.
My prayer was answered.
Amos came home at exactly the time the kids were at home. We happily welcomed him, the kids much happier. I helped him with the luggage, and after much kisses, we went into the bedroom, and he carried me onto the bed.
“You didn’t miss me much, did you?” our eyes locked, then our lips met.
“You know I missed you… so much!” we kissed again.
The neatly spread bedsheet rustled underneath us as we moved, my hips arching—and my legs clasping his waist.
My heart pounded watching him remove his clothes. I stripped to my underwear and let him between my legs.
“I thought they say sex renders one unconscious?” I asked after much series of hot make out.
He chuckled, caressing my hair, planting a light kiss on my forehead, as he drifted off to sleep.
The year was almost ending and Christmas was fast approaching. It was going to be our first as a family. Each time I talked about it, Amos would say no word but act like it didn’t matter.
“Why don’t you like it when I talk about Christmas?” something in me made me ask.
He ignored me and glued his eyes on the paper. The headline was boldly written on it, the name clearly visible.
“Vanguard—” I read, trying to distract myself.
“I don’t know. I just don’t see why we should celebrate it.”
I said, “Only an atheist says that,”
He fixed a stern look at me.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
He looked back at the newspaper. “Keep pushing me.” His face had gotten another look.
Please, Lord, don’t tell me I’m married to an atheist—I prayed silently, hearing the rhythmic thumping—of my heart.
The following day was a weird one. I woke up to the hard straining of my head and the bad rumbling of my stomach.
Feeling the urge to vomit, I quickly went into the bathroom and poured every content out in the sink. I was feeling pale—sick. I spent time in the bathroom, alerting Amos.
“I’m fine,” I didn’t want to look at his face after what happened yesterday.
“But you’re vomiting…”
“I said I’m fine, Amos!” I gritted, banging the bathroom door.
The doctor confirmed that I was pregnant. While handing me the result, he asked if I was married. Something he had done before. Ignoring him again, I thanked him and left his office, not sure if I was ready to tell Amos.
Amos had gone to work—a relief for the mean time. Placing the envelope into the drawer, I slid out of my gown and made for the bathroom, to have my mind cooled and not think of anything.
The weather was cold and the harmattan got my nose all blocked. I couldn’t breathe or move due to the cold. I was freezing, my blood constricting. The hairs on my skin weren’t left out. They were raised, with the blood narrowing the road to where it laid. My teeth were clenched, and my eyes partly open; the image I could make out. It was Amos observing me, his question coming next. “Cold?”
“It’s half past eleven. Want me to fix you breakfast?”
The urge to vomit came again, and I held it in and sat up.
“I’m not hungry.” I slipped my feet into the slippers. I took my brush and went into the bathroom. Brushed, bathed, came out, then…
“When were you going to tell me?”
I was confused at first, then I remembered. The enveloped! My eyes rolled in their sockets. I’d forgotten I hadn’t removed it from the drawer.
Lips dry—mouth not having anything to say, I gaped, heart racing—blood pulsing. He drew closer and showed me the paper he had taken out. “This!”
I gulped, not knowing what to say. “I was going to tell you—” my lips finally made out words.
“Tell me when?”
I said nothing but watched.
“Habibat, so this is how you want it?”
I was lost. “Want what?”
“You’re pregnant and you couldn’t even tell your husband! How long have you known?”
He thundered. “Yesterday?!” he stood akimbo, rolling his eyes at me. “And you want me to believe?”
“I swear, it was yesterday,”
He tossed the paper on the bed, along with the envelope. “I cannot believe you right now!” he said and left, my heart heavy and filled with regret.
You should have told him in the first place—millions of voices echoed in my head. I sat shakily on the bed and took up the paper, ran my hand on it and moved my eyes on my tum. “Oh, what did I do?” I sighed faintly and got up to dress.