My heart is heavy tonight. The load it carries is weighing me down. I saw a video that triggered another memory.
Why do people please people at the expense of themselves?
Why do people risk the life of a loved one because of some institution?
Why do we pelt disdainful eyes and cold shoulders to victims of certain circumstances?
Why do we have to forget that we were humans first, before any race, colour, or class?
Still, wondering why I’m asking sober questions?
Let’s dig in.
In 2007, the world of a young girl came clattering apart. It didn’t just clatter, it crashed in subsequent months. She was a friend, though older, she preferred her age mates and lesser.
She was intelligence laced with so much beauty. Her voice was soothing to the soul—that got her a permanent seat at the choir stand. Our few conversations centered on school things, and church things of course. I was a better Bible student while she bested me in school stuff.
It all started at the dawn of that fateful day. We were seated in SS 1b class. The day was as hectic as ever with teachers trooping in back to back. At break time we poured her water and chanted “Happy birthday.” she was overwhelmed by the love but shivered as the cold water splashed on her body.
We taught she was acting up until she ran out and emptied her belly through the mouth. Most of us teased her, trickling and jesting that she was conceived of the spirit. Of course, no one believed she could be pregnant. She managed a smile and was taken to the school nurse for treatment.
That afternoon we walked home together rather sluggishly and I urged her to rest at home. She worried and I couldn’t tell why.
The following day, I waited for her call to school but she didn’t come. I went straight to their house and met her mother. A woman of surety, a Deaconess in church, and a member of prominent societies in the church. She was never pushed over. With the way she acts sometimes, you’d believe she was the husband and not the other way around.
On sighting me, She snarled at my greetings and I wondered where I had erred. I asked after my friend and the reply was a snappy statement “She’s not going to school today.”
I knew something wasn’t right yet I left to fight another day. What kind of sickness was Deborah suffering from?
Why is her mother volatile to me for no just reason?
Three days passed. Three days of no words from Deborah, just her mother’s stern warnings. “Allow my daughter to rest.”
“But ma, our teachers are asking for her whereabouts.”
“Tell them, she’ll resume next week.”
“Can I see her? I promise to be silent all through the meeting.”
Her eyes glittered with rage, then sparked with anger. She was yet to say the words when I ran out of her compound.
At home, I told Mom, her good friend and she promised to go see her. When Mom finally arrived home that evening, she looked exhausted, her eyes had tiredness in them. She revealed the state of my friend and asked me to continue praying for her recovery. She said she had been admitted to the hospital and was in critical condition. I asked the hospital but she never revealed. Heaving a sigh, swallowed hard and dashed out, sulking like a six-year-old.
The next day was a Sunday and as the sun winded down. Mum led me to the hospital. The smell of antiseptic, aspirin, and tetomozine assaulted my nostrils as I walked in. We checked in with the nurse and drifted right to the section tagged Ward F.
Getting to the door, we heard sniffles and muffled sobs. We knocked. The door opened slightly. Deborah’s mother’s face appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were reddened, soaked with tears. On seeing me, she was shocked and peered at my mom.
“He’s been sulking since yesterday. In fact, he insisted he must follow me.” Mother answered. Opening the door, she ushered us in. As I saw Deborah’s fragile frame wrapped in blue bedsheets. My heart leaped in different directions. She was too frail, her breathing unsteady.
I sauntered to the side of the iron bed recoiling with my hands wrapped in my armpits. Deborah’s mother watched me closely.
“You can touch her. She’s not infected with a skin disease.”
My hand strayed shakily to her arm. I picked it up like firewood, held it for a while, and dropped it.
“Deborah. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” a faint voice answered.
Her mom turned, same with mine. Both had gasps of shock and relief on their faces. She hadn’t opened her eyes nor said a word in two days.
“Onyii. Is that you?” her free hand moved towards me.
“it’s me. How are you?” I held the hand, caressing automatically while looking into the hollow of her eyes.
Her mother moved closer but she turned away from her. Her eyes were a fiery dart of hate and animosity. I gauged her mom and then her as she handed me a flask.
“Nne. What do you want? Moi-moi, akamu, or tea?”
There was a ponderous silence.
And when she spoke, she ordered her mom out of the room. We were gobsmacked except for her mother who ushered my mom out to give us privacy.
“What was that?” I motioned to her unruly attitude toward her mother.
“Let her be.”
She sat up, grimacing as she did so. She ate her food and laid back. Inquisitive as I came to be, I asked what her sickness was called. That was when she preached a sermon that was shocking and disgusting to my ears. How the hunter killed the bird and left its offspring. How evil was repaid with evil and how the church will demote her mother if she didn’t do it. I could see the tears hanging on her lids.
I left her hand, shrugged, and stared into her eyes. She was spilling the truth.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked her.
“Because you’re my only friend. And I overheard the doctor saying I may not survive it.”
“You mean you were pregnant and your mother aborted it because she didn’t want the church to suspend her?” the shock was still evident on my face. She nodded and as I tried to say something else, the creaking of the door interrupted our conversation. The two mothers surfaced, eyes darting around the room. I kept my composure, handed the woman her flask, and sat on the bed.
The next actions were quick and brutal. She was fine seconds ago but as I sat beside her, she started jerking intermittently, up, down a couple of times. I was confused, my mom was perplexed. Her mom, startled at the development sent a shrill cry that invited both the doctor and nurses running into the room.
They filed in, trays and instruments in hand. Blood streamed from Deborah’s mouth as the nurses pushed us outside and closed the door.
Don’t ask me if she survived.
Don’t!
Because,
I just wonder how you kick against abortion yet give those pregnant teenagers looks of disdain.
© Stephen Toochi
#StephStories
