Part 1
The whole maternity ward went silent when Chidinma’s husband laughed after the doctor told her their unborn baby was gone. Chidinma lay on the narrow hospital bed in a private clinic in Lekki Phase 1, her wrapper twisted around her waist, her lips dry, her eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that moved slowly like it was too tired to care. Only 3 hours earlier, she had been at home in their serviced apartment, clutching her stomach and screaming his name while blood stained the edge of her blue nightdress. Tunde had first shouted from the sitting room that she was disturbing his online meeting. Then he saw her collapse beside the dining table and finally drove her through traffic, one hand on the steering wheel, the other still holding his phone. At the hospital, Chidinma kept begging every nurse who touched her arm to save the baby. No one promised anything. When the doctor entered after the scan, his face carried the kind of pity that did not need words. He pulled a chair close and spoke gently.
—Mrs. Adewale, I am very sorry. We could not find a heartbeat. You have lost the pregnancy.
Chidinma did not scream. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her hands flew to her belly, as if she could hold the baby inside by force. She looked at Tunde, waiting for him to rush to her, to cry with her, to call her “my wife” like he did when people were watching. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, gave a short laugh and shook his head.
—Maybe God just saved us from trouble.
The nurse beside the bed turned sharply.
—Sir?
Tunde slipped his phone into his pocket and smirked.
—What? She was already acting like pregnancy made her queen of Nigeria. Maybe she was not ready to be a mother.
Something inside Chidinma cracked so quietly that only she heard it. This was the same man who had painted their spare room sunshine yellow. The same man who had taken pictures holding tiny baby shoes at Balogun Market. The same man who had knelt beside her stomach every night and called the child “our little chairman.” For 5 months, he had acted like a proud father, touching her belly in front of friends, smiling at church, telling his mother that the Adewale bloodline would soon continue. Chidinma had believed him. She had swallowed her vitamins, attended every appointment, prayed every dawn, and avoided even cold zobo because his mother said it was not good for the baby. Now the child was gone, and her husband was laughing.
When they returned home that evening, rain tapped against the balcony glass. Chidinma sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing her hospital bracelet. Tunde poured himself whisky in the kitchen and called his friend on speaker until he remembered she could hear. He lowered his voice, but not enough.
—Bro, you needed to see the drama. She cried like they buried a whole village chief.
His laughter filled the corridor. Chidinma pressed both hands over her mouth, not because she wanted to stop crying, but because she refused to let him hear one more sound from her pain. The next morning, Tunde’s mother, Mama Ronke, arrived with a gold handbag, heavy perfume, and a face full of accusation. She did not hug Chidinma. She looked around the yellow baby room and hissed.
—In my family, women carry children. They do not drop them like broken plates.
Tunde said nothing. He only looked at his phone.
From that day, the apartment became colder than harmattan in Jos. Tunde came home late smelling of expensive perfume that was not hers. He guarded his phone like it contained government secrets. When Chidinma entered a room, he turned the screen down. When she asked where he had been, he said “outside” and walked away. Then one Saturday afternoon, his 9-year-old son, Kosi, came to visit from another woman. Tunde always used the boy to boast that he was a responsible father before marrying Chidinma. But that day, watching Kosi sip malt from a straw, Chidinma noticed what she had never allowed herself to see: the boy’s face, eyes, complexion, and even the shape of his smile looked nothing like Tunde.
Later, Kosi left his used straw on the table. Chidinma picked it up slowly, wrapped it in tissue, and slipped it into a small plastic bag. Her hands were steady. Her heart was not. For the first time since the hospital, she was not grieving blindly. She was following a shadow.
3 days later, an envelope arrived from a DNA lab in Victoria Island. Chidinma sat alone at the dining table while rain clouds darkened the sky. She opened the paper, read the result, and stopped breathing.
0% probability of paternity.
Before she could fold it back, the front door opened. Tunde walked in smiling at his phone, with lipstick on his collar and Mama Ronke behind him holding a small travel bag. His mother’s eyes landed on the envelope in Chidinma’s hand.
—What are you hiding there?
Chidinma looked up slowly, and for the first time in weeks, Tunde’s smile disappeared.
Part 2
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