On Literie: https://api.literiess.com/share?share_token=9zcrGXLzmHEeDgudmiyjMIf7PDMwRoIxccwN2L8dRKU=

On Novellair:

https://fqnewapi.novellairs.com/share?share_token=+thRMKU/+G+eztmls+lvKItsej/SNHWgYfWVBbWJg8g=

On NovelOasis:

https://api.novel-oasis.com/middle/share?user_id=1062449&book_id=53660&platform=15&sign=98ce8f8a3ac6a08e060faf121ca21cb7

The lighting, the ambience, the food! Is he going to ask me to be his girlfriend? He looks at me with a soft smile and takes my hand in his. It’s really happening.

“Okay, I’m listening.” I say, flashing him my best smile.

I knew Daniel was the one the second I laid eyes on him years ago when we were in university. I didn’t tell him how I felt and let him slip through my fingers. Thankfully, the universe cares about me and sent him my way the weekend I decided to give up on dating.

We reconnected a month ago and we’ve been talking on the phone constantly and have even gone on a few dates.

I’m the last one to assume what a man feels towards me but I’ve had my suspicions since the first time he called me on the phone.

“Do you now have a man?” he finally asks.

There’s static ringing in my head. Maybe I didn’t hear him right. The man I’ve been talking to on the phone every night for a month is asking if I finally have a man. It’s not the question that puts me off. It’s how he asked it. Not like he wants to be my man but like he thinks it’s a ridiculous question to ask.

“I… I’m sorry? I’m confused here.”

“I’m sorry if I’m prying o but you know you had a reputation of being the most single girl back then in school. I was wondering if you finally got yourself a man.”

This has to be a stimulation. Before I panic, I decide to calm down and know where this conversation is heading.

“I don’t understand, most single girl?”

“Yes nah. Everyone in the department knew you were a single Pringle from 100 level until we graduated. Ahh, we used to mount on Ekene and Bucky’s WhatsApp status every time you people start that your play. It was so funny.”

Oh God, this is getting progressively worse.

“Everyone?”

“Don’t look scared. Not like everyone but most of the guys. A lot of them collected your number just for the banter. So tell me, do you finally have a man?”

“Uhm, no. I don’t have a man.”

I regret my answer as soon as the words leave my lips. I should not have given this time waster the satisfaction of knowing I’m single.

“But you’ve had maybe one or two boyfriends since that time now.” He continues, not caring that I have lost the smile on my face.

I don’t answer. How do I leave this date? I haven’t even eaten half of my food and I was really hungry. I look around the restaurant because I feel like everyone can hear this conversation and they’re laughing at me.

My eyes meet our waitress and she mouth ‘take away?’ at me. Clearly she’s used to people who have horrible dates. I subtly nod at her and turn my attention back to Daniel. The universe might not want me to date but they sure want me to eat.

“Ah, Dera. You’re a beautiful girl. Normally men should be begging at your knees but you’ve always had a little pride in you.” he says with a sly smile.

“Daniel why have you been calling me every night for the past one month?”

Our waitress comes with the takeaway and I smile at her in gratitude. I take the takeaway and start putting my food in.

“You’re full already? When did you call the waitress?”

“No, don’t ask me anything Daniel. Why were you calling me every night for the past one month? Especially since you know you’re not interested in me.”

He starts stuttering. He doesn’t even know why! Typical time waster. One month of being delusional gone, just like that. I used to be so discerning when it came to time wasters. Why did I allow this man to do me like this?

“Thanks for the meal. It has not been a lovely evening and I will be deleting your number from my phone the second I’m in a taxi.”

Without waiting for his reply, I take my food and leave the last time waster for the year. God knows I’ve tried for trashy men for the year. I’ve wrapped it up — for real this time. We move next year!

“Please don’t run again.”

If I wasn’t so sure she'd hit me with her bag, I would laugh. Jane; sweet, beautiful, and kind Jane. The absolute last person I expected to see on my stroll through my new neighborhood. For a split second after literary slamming into her because I was looking at my phone, running was an option I was considering.

The last time I saw Jane, her hair was cut really short, and she looked stressed. Probably because she had just told me she loved me, and my response was to freeze and look at her like she was crazy. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I ran out on her and cut her off. I'm sure if I had looked back once, I would have seen the curious and furious stares being thrown my way as I ran out of the restaurant. She let her hair grow out and is wearing it in a cute style.

I let out a little smile. It feels so good to see her again, as if everything just clicked into place.

“It’s good to see you, Jane. It's been what? Two years?” I ask as I stretch out my hand for a handshake.

She looks at it weirdly before taking my hand.

“Two years, five months, a week, and three days, but who’s counting?”

We both chuckle at her words. Counting time was her thing when we dated.

"I'm just playing. How have you been, Mark?" She asks as she starts walking in the direction I had come from—my house.

"I’ve been good. What about you?”

Jane was the most beautiful thing to ever happen to me. She was literary perfection. We connected emotionally, sexually, mentally, and physically. She was everything good in my life. It’s a pity I met her at a time when I couldn’t appreciate everything she was to me.

She laughs at the question.

"I've been good too. I graduated, left home, and did everything we were supposed to do together. Life is okay.”

There's a pinch in my chest at the sadness in her voice. Jane loved me with everything she had, and in my own juvenile way, I loved her too. But I was young and didn’t know what to do with a good woman. Why did I run away? Why didn’t I stick it out with this girl? To date, she is the only female connection that has meant anything to me.

I look away from her and remember that we were walking back towards where I live. I have to stop her. For some reason, I don’t want her to know where I stay. I don’t think she’ll start stalking me or anything; I guess it’s the guilt. The less I see of her, the more I forget what an asshole I was. I couldn’t walk past my house; my sister was outside in the compound, and she'd definitely call out to Jane if we got there.

"It sounds like a really good life.” I say. “What are you doing around these parts?” I ask, trying to sound uninterested.

“Oh, I live on this estate.” She says.

Shit! So much for forgetting the past. She will definitely see me around, so there is no use trying to hide where I live from her.

“Oh yeah? Me too, I just moved in two days ago.” I say.

On second thought, maybe moving states and living on the same estate as Jane isn’t such a bad twist of fate.

“I know.” She says, and I turn to look at her so fast that my neck hurts.

"Okay, not creepy at all.”

She laughs, and I close my eyes and savor it. Jane had always had a beautiful laugh. I used to make a proper fool of myself just to hear her laugh. I'm glad that didn’t change.

“I promise you, it's not like that. I saw you the day you moved in.”

Here I was, trying to think up an elaborate plan for her not to know where I stay, and the whole time she knew the house.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.

“I didn’t know what I should expect. The last time we saw each other, I poured my heart out to you in a public restaurant, and you literally ran. You proceeded to block me on everything and didn’t answer the door when I knocked.”

Like I said, I could not appreciate everything she was to me.

"Jane, about that.…”

“This is me.” she says, cutting me off.

“What?”

“This is where I live. You didn’t think I was walking you to your house, did you?”

I did.

“No, of course not. That would be very conceited.”

She shakes her head, clearly not buying it. I don’t blame her.

"It's good to have you in the neighborhood. Have a nice evening.” She says and starts to open the gate.

“Hey, Jane.” I call, and she turns.

“Do you want to maybe get a drink with me sometime?” I say with bated breath.

“So you can tell me how sorry you are for breaking my heart?” She asks with a smile.

“Yeah, that.” I say with a little smile.

“Okay, I can make time. Same location, 6 p.m. tomorrow, don’t be late!” She says as she pushes the gate open and goes in.

I chuckle, my evening better, and my heart lighter. There's a bounce in my step as I walk down to where I live, my stroll forgotten. Maybe slamming into Jane isn't the worst thing to happen.

Life comes at you fast. One month you’re preparing for your fifteenth anniversary, and the next you’re thinking of all the painful ways you could kill your dearly beloved husband.
I didn’t enter into marriage expecting my husband to be faithful to me. No, my mother had groomed me to believe it was foolishness on a woman’s part to expect a faithful husband, saying only very foolish women expected monogamy from men. My mother refused to be foolish, and God forbid her daughter ever became foolish. So really, I expected my husband to have sexual relations with women who were not me, held my breath, prayed it would not break me, and desperately hoped for discretion. What I did not expect, however, was to live under the same roof as proof of his infidelity. To live in oblivious ignorance while he turned a room that should have been a home office for me into an alter of sin.
My husband and I started our ministry in a small shop on the street we lived on. It always felt like the most natural thing to do, seeing as both our parents were people of God. It was easy; it was something I envisioned doing for a long time with the absolute love of my life. We’ve been together for twelve years since then. Ministering together, watching him speak peace into people’s lives, and loving him and our little children. It was absolute bliss, so, like a fool, I forgot to shun all foolishness.

But all good things must come to an end, so my bliss came to an end. It was a shock the first time I found out; it wasn’t through his phone or anything simple. I was bringing lunch to his church office when I saw a sister dragging him off to the back of the church. I didn’t think anything of it; people were always telling him confidential things. The reason I followed them was because this particular sister was a pain in the back; she was judgmental and was always making snide remarks about me. I wanted to hear what shameful secret she wanted to confess, something I could use to keep her in check. Instead, I found a shameful secret that would keep her in check but would ruin me. I felt betrayed, not enough, inadequate, and confused. How could he do that to me after everything we had been through together? The highs, lows, and all the in-betweens. I almost cried; the thought of my mother’s face was the only thing that kept me from bawling my eyes out at the back of the church. What I did was pray, fast, and plead with God to let this cup pass over me.
When that didn’t seem to work, I went back to my mother. Someone who had experience with cheating husbands. She said, "Nkem, it’s good you came to me instead of causing a scene. I told you this was bound to happen one day, but as usual, you didn’t listen. Men cheat. It’s in their nature. Do you think Abraham did not offer sacrifices of joy when Sarah offered her maid to him? Do you think he did not enjoy all the rounds he went with her to create Ishmael? Ignore him, dear child; focus on your children."
So I ignored him and his cheating ways. I gave myself to church, charities, and my children, and on most nights when he comes home and kisses me, I can almost pretend that I don’t know the owner of the perfume that he reeks of.
The day I found out what a horrible person my husband truly was started off like any other normal day. It was the week after our fifteenth anniversary; he had gone to Abuja for a conference; my children went out with their aunt; and I was at home, bored and alone, and decided that I would clean the house. We have a cleaner who comes twice a week, but I needed to be doing something, especially because an odor was coming from his prayer room.
His prayer room was usually off-limits to everyone except my husband. No one entered to clean or even to call him. He said it was a place he had intensely sanctified, and having any other person in there felt like desecration to him. Two days before the unfortunate day, an offensive smell started oozing from the room. This wasn’t unusual, as it happened at least once a year, but he was always there to clean it before it really got bad. This time, though, he wasn’t around to clean it.

I started cleaning other parts of the house, sprayed air fresheners, and even lit some scented candles around the door to the prayer room, but that seemed to make it worse. I finally had enough and decided that he would just sanctify the room all over again when he came back from his travels. So with my cleaning supplies in hand, I took the spare key from where he hid it (I checked all the left shoes he had). My husband was terrible at hiding things) and slowly opened the door.
It was everything you expect a prayer room to look like. Dim lights, sticky notes all over the wall, a table that had different bibles, notes, and holy oil, A book shelf filled with books—nothing out of the ordinary. I started looking around for where the odor was coming from. After a few minutes of sniffing around, I finally found the place where the odor was coming from: the back of the book shelf. I shifted the book shelf to reveal a black 'walky-talky' bag that was tied with a red ribbon. Being Nigerian and knowing the symbolism of black and red, especially in a suspicious corner of a pastor’s very sacred office, I shakily shifted the book shelf back to its position and walked out of the room, firing off all the prayers for protection my fear-soaked heart could remember.
What was Dozie doing, having such a bag in his room, and most importantly, when did he start practicing 'Juju’? Our church, 'Grace that Graces Grace Ministries’, was not popular for healings and miracles; we were popular for the sound doctrines we teach and a fellowship-centered theme. I couldn’t believe he would ever do that, so if not 'Juju' for miracles, what could it be for?
I sat on the floor for over two hours, trying to decide my next level of action. Maybe it was not 'Juju’; maybe it was a bag filled with dirty socks. Dozie has always been very shy about his smelly feet, and he washes his socks himself. Maybe that was what was in the bag—socks he never got around to washing. There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. I’ve known this man for years, and I’ve lived the better parts of my life with him. I know him better than he knows himself.
With new-found resolution, I went back into the office, straight to the book shelf, brought out the bag, opened it, took a deep breath, and looked inside. I was shocked for two seconds, not understanding what I was looking at, and then it clicked, and I released the loudest scream I have ever screamed in my life. It was official; I was living with a ritualist. Dozie had somehow, over the years, started dabbling in ritual because how else could anyone explain finding a suspicious bag filled with rotting placenta?

I dropped the bag and shifted far away from it, close to the wall with sticky notes. My husband was harvesting placentas and allowing them to rot. O God, what would the church think? Is this affecting my children? Little wonder Benna seemed a little dumb.
The tears kept coming, and my heart kept racing till the awful smell became almost nonexistent. Thoughts swirled around my head. What was I going to do? Should I confront him? Should I pretend this whole ordeal was a very bad nightmare and ignore it? How was I supposed to sleep on the same bed with him moving forward?
I turned towards the sticky note wall, not really seeing anything but willing inspiration to come from there. It felt like I was staring for hours when, really, it could not have been more than a couple of minutes when my eyes started making out some words. 'Pray for Sister Agnes; she suffers from terrible nightmares’, 'Pray for Brother Hezekiah; his wife is terribly sick’, 'Pray for Sister Leticia; her vagina is getting a bit loose’, 'Pray...’.
Wait, what? I went back to that particular prayer point, hoping it was the trauma of finding out that my husband was a potential ritualist that made me misread the writings on the wall. But no, no matter how hard or how many times I read it, it still said the same thing: 'Pray for Sister Leticia; her vagina is getting a bit loose’.
I brought down all the sticky notes on the wall and started reading them one after the other, rotting Placenta forgotten. Some of them were typical prayer points, but most of them had my soul in bitter tears. 'Pray for Brother Bright; he has threatened to expose his wife and me. 'Pray for Sister Judith; may she find wisdom in agreeing to meet with me next week’. 'Pray for Sister Obum that she may learn all the styles I know she could excel at’.
The last one broke me: 'Pray for Nkem; may she keep turning a blind eye to my activities’. I was Nkem! I guess God did answer his prayers; I’ve been pretending not to notice for years. If God answered that prayer, who knew what other prayer he answered?
It was that thought that prompted me. I took that particular note to my room and sent it to him with a text that read, 'Come home." I called my sister and asked her to drop the kids off with my mother for the weekend. She asked what the problem was. After assuring her that everything was peachy and that I just wanted alone time with my husband, she agreed.
A text had come in from Dozie: ‘You never listen. Getting on the plane now; don’t do anything stupid.’
I sat down on the sofa and must have dozed off because the next time I opened my eyes, it was dark and Dozie was tapping me. I sat up and watched him quietly move to the kitchen. He came back in a couple of minutes with a glass of juice. He sat down, took a sip of his juice, and looked me dead in the eye.

"I thought we agreed that my prayer room was off-limits to everyone."
That’s the first thing he says? Not an apology, not excuses? Why is he so calm about it? Where is the lie I’m due?
"Really Dozie? I find out you’re a perv and a potential ritualist, and that’s the first thing you say."
"Don’t raise your voice. Nkem, we’re adults, and we’ll talk like adults. You’ve always known about women. I know you did. You’ve never said anything; why start now, and what is this rubbish about ritual?"
"That was before I found out you were devoting our house to praying perverse prayers for your other women in a room you know I wanted to use and..."
"Are you really angry about Nkem, the prayer points, or the fact that they’re in a room you wanted to use? What do you know you’re using an office to do anyway?"
I honestly didn’t know what I was most angry about. This wasn’t how I pictured everything going down. In my mind, I was going to shout, break things, hit him, have him grovel at my feet, and beg me not to leave him. We were not having this conversation like we were at a counseling session. All the fights I had prepared in my mind felt like a waste.
"I’ll expose you, Dozie. I want no hand in your ritual; I’ll expose you before you drag my children and me to hell." Lies.
"What ritual are you on about?"
"I saw it, Dozie; I saw your evil black bag of ritual; I know what you do in that room. It was smelly; that was why I was in the room in the first place."
He laughed—actually laughed.
"It’s not ritual, Nkem. I’m not telling you what it is, but it’s not ritual. I’m going to bed. I’m assuming the children are with your mother; I want them back tomorrow."
That was it?
"Stop right there, Dozie. How are you so calm about everything? My heart is breaking, and you’re there, not even ruffled. I deserve an apology, an explanation, anything that is not this cool cucumber attitude."
He stopped and stared as if he were seeing me for the first time. Then turned and came to stand right in my face.
"Because, Nkem, you will not do anything. Even at this moment, where you’re supposed to be screaming and shouting and breaking things, you’re not. You’re an enabler, Nkem, and I know that whatever I do, you’ll not leave. And some twisted part of my brain wants to keep pushing you. I drop hints and clues, but you don’t see any of them. Because you don’t want to. That bag of placenta in the office? That’s my son, Gideon; he was born last week. I don’t know why I keep the placentas of all my illegitimate children, but I do. I bring them home. I keep them in my office until I can’t stay with them anymore. Good night, and bring back my children tomorrow."

With that, he went up to our room, leaving me alone in the sitting room, more shattered than I was when the day began. I started to calculate how many times the smell had come from his room of iniquity and the dates. Did he seem happier everytime I had to complain about the smell? Did his steps seem bouncier? Sleep was the last thing on my mind, and I stayed awake till dawn. Once it was 7, I called my mother and told her the driver would collect the children. He was right; I was not the type of woman to shout and yell and leave her husband.
My mind made up, I had my bath, made breakfast for the kids and Dozie, and then locked myself up in my room. There, I drove headfirst into extensive research on poisons that won’t kill you immediately. I wanted a slow death for Dozie. Something he won’t see coming. I needed to feel the satisfaction of knowing he didn’t think that I could kill him. I wanted to smile in his face and tell him he shouldn’t have underestimated me.
My search led me to Styrofoam. It was everywhere, and it was secretly killing people, but I couldn’t exactly stuff a Styrofoam cup in his mouth. So I looked up styrene; larger quantities will kill you, but small quantities should be okay. That led me to look for a coursemate who worked at a Styrofoam company. It took most of the day, but by the end of it, I had a contact and a promise to get a vial of styrene in a few days.
That was how I started adding styrene to my husband’s pineapple juice every Sunday. It was a ritual he had: freshly squeezed pineapple juice every Sunday before lunch. We didn’t talk about that day. He pretended it didn’t happen; I wasn’t so lucky.
By the fourth Sunday, I was angry; poisoning him was too slow. I need him to die immediately. In church that day, he had smiled at a woman with a newborn baby. I decided that I didn’t care about telling him anything. He could feel regret in hell. At night, when everyone had gone to sleep, I picked up my tablet and a pair of pliers, called upon the mighty gods of YouTube, and went to his Monday car. That’s another thing he’ll regret in hell: predictability. Every Monday, he liked to do the driving himself in a particular car, probably to meet with one of his women. So on Sundays, he sends the drivers, gatemen, and housekeeping staff home to their families.
So with pliers and trusty YouTube, I went about cutting his brakes. It wasn’t a smooth operation, as I didn’t know anything about cars, but by 1 a.m., I felt like I’d accomplished my mission. For the first time in a month, I slept with a smile on my face.
The next day after he left, I spent the whole day sitting by my phone, expecting a call that my husband had died. By 4 p.m., disappointment had washed over me. I had failed miserably. The bastard lived after all. By 8, I got a call from a member of the church who worked at the general hospital. My husband was brought to the hospital. He was involved in a horrible accident. He had been brought in since morning, but no one could identify him as the car was crushed badly. She worked the night shift and only just now identified him.

In tears, I tore into the hospital, demanding to see my husband. A doctor 'calmed' me down and took me to his office. Dozie’s accident was very bad. He lost both legs and was most likely paralyzed in his hand. He was in a coma, but the doctors weren’t sure if he would make it. If he ever did make it, he was most likely going to be very miserable. The best option was to pull the plug on him. I shrieked and begged God to save my husband in the doctor’s office, told the doctor to give me a couple of days, went home, and made sure my husband’s finances were in order.
On the 5th day, I went to the hospital and signed the paperwork. His burial was a private family affair. I couldn’t bear it if any of his baby mamas showed up. I hoped, for their sakes, they never came forward. The feeling killing Dozie gave me was something I could get used to.

"You seem a little uncomfortable. That wasn't my intention. I thought you wanted to do this."

The ghostwriter I hired for my memoir says, staring at me wearily. I did want to do this. It’s just that the story has a way of making me feel tense.

"I’m sorry if I seem touchy; I’ve just never told anyone apart from my daughter this story.”
"Where is your daughter now?”

She asks again.

“I don’t know. She hasn’t spoken to me since she ran away a year ago.”

It broke my heart that my daughter was out in the world and I didn’t know where she was. Even more heartbreaking that she ran away because she hated me.

“I’m sorry. Do you want to start or should I give you a minute?”

Start. How do I start? Where do I start from? From the day my life slowly went to hell or from the day I decided sitting was for ducks?
I was 15 when I got pregnant. The usual teenage pregnancy story; girl meets boy, boy dazzles girl. Next thing I knew, I was 15 and pregnant.

Ikemefula was tall, handsome, eloquent and very much older. He had everything he needed to woo me. Not that he needed any help; I was smitten the first time I laid eyes on him.

The first time I saw Ikemefula was at church. I felt since I met him at church, surely he was a gift from God. It was his first Sunday in our little congregation. He lived close by and had heard our teachings. When he took the microphone to introduce himself, I had to turn back from my seat in the front. His voice was smooth and gentle. It felt like his introduction was just for me.
After church I hunted him down. I had to talk to this man. 15 was the age you felt like you were becoming a woman and I held firm to this belief. I was just two years away from finishing secondary school, we could make it work.

“Brother Good afternoon.”

I had greeted when I finally caught him by himself.

“Good afternoon.” He had greeted back.

“Will you be coming back to our church?”

I asked and prayed fervently that his reply would be yes.

“Should I come back?”

He was definitely flirting with me, I thought and quickly started planning a wedding in my head.

“Yes. You should come back. Our church will make you go to heaven.”

He laughed then and nodded just as his friend came to drag him off.
At home that night, my mother warned me about Ikemefula.

“I saw the way you were smiling foolishly with that man that came to church. I don’t want to see you with him ever again.”

I had rolled my eyes and groaned in annoyance.

“I was just greeting a first timer.” I said. My mother just scoffed.

“I have told you.” She said and went into her room.

I knew what she was afraid of. My mother had given birth to me at 16. The man had denied the pregnancy and her parents had cast her away. Now she dedicated her life to making sure I didn’t speak to men until I was 50.
The next Sunday, I sat in the back which was unusual for me, just so I could see Ikemefula if he came. After teaching, I was losing hope. Ikemefula was not coming. I tried to push down my disappointment and focus on the questions since I didn’t hear anything in the teaching. That plan flew out the window when he walked into church, alone! That surely meant he came because of me right? I had learned my lesson the last Sunday so I left church and waited for him a few steps away from my mother’s wandering eyes. He smiled when he walked up to me.

“I thought you had left after inviting me.” He said.

“I didn’t leave; my mother said I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

I said with a goofy smile. His smile turned sly and thus began my doom.
I knew I had made a huge mistake when he forced me to kiss him the first time I visited him. He had been asking for a while and complaining about how talking to me briefly after church wasn’t enough. I felt that was love.

On the day I visited, my mother had travelled to Kaduna to buy goods and I knew that it would be my only chance for a while. Ikemefula was ecstatic when I told him on Sunday that I was coming. On Tuesday when my mother left, I put house clothes in my school bag and we left the house together. Instead of going to school, I headed straight to Ikemefula’s house.
That first kiss should have made me run. But I was a love sick puppy so I lay down with my eyes shut when he started pulling my skirt down. I would only do it this one time I had sworn. My mother would never know. One time wouldn’t make me pregnant. Famous last words. After he had taken my virginity, Ikemefula not so gently informed me that he was going to work and I had to clean up and go. I was hurt but I understood. Adults had to work so they wouldn’t be poor.
He didn’t come to church the next Sunday or the upper Sunday. He just stopped coming, vanished into thin air and I couldn’t even visit him. My mother noticed my dark mood and would ask if I was okay. How could I begin to tell her what happened? She would never understand.
My mother found out I was pregnant before I did, she had a teenage pregnancy too. That morning she told me I wouldn’t be going to school and that we had to go to the hospital instead. She didn’t speak to me the entire journey to the hospital or even when we got to the hospital. The nurse she talked to took me into a bathroom and asked me to pee on a stick. After I peed, she took my blood sample and told me to wait outside with my mother. I was confused. Why was the nurse taking my blood, I didn’t feel sick. Every question I asked my mother was ignored. She was still not speaking to me.
Finally the nurse came out. “It’s positive.” She had told my mother.

“But we still have to wait for the blood test to come out. You know most of these things don’t work.”

My mother just nodded at her and walked out of the hospital. I had to run after her, still asking her what that was about. Still she didn’t say a word.
Communication with my mother for the next four days was limited to nods and grunts from her. She had completely iced me out over night and I didn’t know why. On a Friday when I came back from school, I found my mother in the parlor with my bags next to her. Confused, I asked her what was going on? “Ginikachukwu when was the last time you saw your period?”

She had asked, not even looking at me. “What? I saw it …”

I stopped. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my period. I was too focused on my heartbreak. Oh no! I felt my heart drop to my stomach. I wasn’t supposed to get pregnant from doing it one time. That was what all the seniors had said.

“This is everything you own in this house Ginika. I put ten thousand naira there for you. Please leave my house.” I didn’t move. I was frozen in fear and sorrow. Was my mother really going to throw me out?

“Mummy please, I’m so sorry.” I cried, kneeling at her feet.

She brushed off my hands and stood.

“I am going to my shop and when I come back, I do not want to find you in this house.”

The tears rolled hotter and fatter.

“Mummy please now. I am your daughter. It was a mistake.”

“I warned you Ginika!” she screamed at me.

“Ginikachukwu I warned you to stay away from that man. It was that man right? I thought you had listened but obviously we are more alike than I thought.”

“Mummy please, remember how you felt when your parents threw you out.”

That made her pause and I could see that she was crying too. She quickly wiped away the tears.

“That is why it hurts me that you made the same mistake I did.” She said and left the house.
I didn’t leave. I sat on the floor and cried till my voice was coarse. I wouldn’t leave. She was angry but that would end soon. She couldn’t throw me out. Oh how wrong I was.

An hour later, some men came into the house and said my mother had sent them to throw me out. When I wouldn’t leave calmly, they bundled me and put me in a car and drove me to the street our church was on. After they had left, I took a bike to Ikemefula’s house where I found out that he had moved and nobody knew where he went to. I cried again at his house. What had I done to myself?
I took another bike to my mother’s shop in the market. It was locked when I got there and her neighbor was confused when she saw me. My mother had moved out of the market on Tuesday. My mind was starting to spin. I took another bike home and my neighbors looked at me with pity. My mother had taken a few things and informed them she would be back for the rest of her property. She had moved out. My mother and Ikemefula had vanished on the same day. The heartbreak caused me to faint.
Two weeks later, I was at the gate of an abortion clinic when I heard my name being called. I turned to find Mr. Peter, my friend’s father waving at me. He crossed the road to meet me.

“Ginika what are you doing at a place like this?”

I didn’t know when I burst out crying. Mr. Peter had always been a kind man and it felt like hope that he stopped me before I went through with the abortion. I told him my story and he took me into his home. He gave me a room in their boys quarter and I vowed that I would repay him for his kindness.
I didn’t go back to school; instead, I worked at Mr. Peter’s restaurant. I studied with Uche his daughter every day after school, so I wouldn’t miss much when I was ready to write WAEC. When I was seven months gone, Mr. Peter said I should stop work; the stress wasn’t good for the baby he said. It was during these two months that I first realized everything came at a price.
The first thing I noticed was that because I was no longer very tired from the work at the restaurant, I was awake in the night and I could hear screams coming from the main house, Mr. Peter was a wife beater. I felt disappointed with him because I had genuinely thought he was a good man. I tried talking to Uche about it but she told me to mind my business if I wanted to keep staying in their house. I found out the price I had to pay for a roof over my head and work that paid a week after I began to stay at home. Mr. Peter would come into my room every night and I was to lie very still each night he came into my room. He insisted I lie still, said he didn’t need any of the acrobatics young girls learned these days. He took this rule very seriously.
At first I fought him, but then I realized how useless it was. Then I wanted to tell his wife but I realized that the walls were not that thick and they were bound to know. I also remembered Uche had said that if I wanted to stay in the house, minding my business was mandatory. I accepted my fate and made up my mind to run away when my baby was born and I had enough money. After I gave birth, he stopped coming and I felt sweet relief. I named my baby ‘Chinenyeudo’ because I only felt peace whenever I was in God’s presence.
Three months after I gave birth, he started visiting me again. He would pick my baby up and drop her at the foot of the bed. Then wordlessly climb the bed and have his way with me. One really horny night, I moved, just a little, to try to get any form of enjoyment I could from his torture. He didn’t like that. He yelled that he had warned me not to try any of the wanton things young girls did. He beat me to within an inch of my life. Of course his wife and daughter heard me scream. They always heard when my baby cried or when I laughed. I guess they just didn’t care enough or were simply minding their business.
That was the first time I realized there was no such thing as karma. Nothing bad happened to those who hurt you. I was kicked out that night with my little Chinenyeudo. Kicked out with nothing but what was thrown to me and a wad of cash he threw at me before he closed the gate on my face. I slept in a hotel that night and when morning came, I went straight to the Ajo woman I was saving my money with.
It took her about three hours to gather all the money I had been saving since I started working. I was back to square one. No family, homeless, except this time, I had money. I went to the park and entered a bus that was almost full. It was a bus to Port Harcourt. I would start afresh. Without my mother, without Ikemefula and I would succeed. And I would love my daughter. I wouldn’t cause her the hurt my mother had caused me.
My life was going as well as was expected; I immediately started hawking biscuit and pure water till I got the lay of the land. Then I got a cleaning job at a hair salon. I picked up a couple of things and the next year I started making hair at the salon. Things got good over the years. I opened my own shop five years later.

I looked up my mother and found out she had gotten married and was living happily with her husband and son. I try not feel bitter but I lose that battle everyday. I curse them every morning.

I looked him up Mr. Peter too; He was still alive, had opened three more restaurants since then and was expecting his second grandchild. Ikemefula was harder to track but eventually, I found him. The evil man had given birth to the sweetest girls.

Karma doesn’t exist. Evil people still thrive in the world. I couldn’t allow that, especially after all the trauma they caused me so I did the things karma was supposed to do.
“Are you sure you want to write this memoir?”

The ghostwriter asked me.

“You could end up in jail when people read what I think you’re insinuating.” I smiled.

“I know. I thought about it. But maybe that is the only way I’ll find my Chinenyeudo.”