by Jane Igharo
“Um . . .” The doctor glances at my mother and then at me. “Well . . . um . . .”
“I’m pregnant.” The confession makes my mouth bitter and my heart palpitate and my eyes water. “Mom?”
She doesn’t respond. She gapes at me. Her dark eyes are blank with no emotions evident to decipher.
“Maybe I should give you all a minute,” the doctor says, backing toward the door. “I’ll be back later.”
“Wait!” I call out. “The baby. Is it okay?”
“Everything looks good. We’ll talk later.”
Upon the doctor’s exit, I refocus on my family. They aren’t doing so good. Jacob, already informed of my status, is calm. My sister, however, has both hands over her gasping and cursing mouth. My uncle is breathing hard, pumping air into his large chest and releasing it rapidly. My mother hasn’t stopped staring at me.
“Mom?”
“Azere.” Finally, she speaks. “Tell me you are joking.”
“No.” I tug on the hospital gown, separating the cotton fabric from my sweaty neck. “I’m pregnant.”
“But you’re a virgin, saving yourself for marriage.”
“No. I’m not.”
Initially, I planned to stay celibate until marriage. My mother’s numerous lectures about the importance of celibacy convinced me the devil would drag me to hell the moment I had premarital sex. The whole idea scared me, but then Elijah came along, and I got pulled into a whirlwind of emotions and hormones. After losing my virginity, remaining celibate seemed pointless. I dated and, when I felt a deep connection with someone, had sex. It wasn’t frequent, but it happened, and I always thought I could keep my sex life from my mother. Today, unfortunately, she’s found out in the worst possible way.
“So, Azere, you are pregnant?”
I nod. “Yes, Mommy.”
“Jesus Christ of Nazareth!” She throws her hands on her head and wails, calling on her maker to intervene. “Help me o!”
“Auntie,” Jacob says, “please calm down.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and tries to soothe her, but she shoves him away.
“Calm down for what?” she yells. “Calm down for what? Or have you not heard the news? Your cousin is pregnant. Pregnant and unwed.” Now, she’s jumping and wailing. “What will people say? Who else will they blame but me, her mother? What will I tell the pastor? What will I tell my prayer group? How will I face the world? Zere, you have ruined me. Prepare my grave. Because I am dead. You have killed me.”
The dramatics of a Nigerian mother is nothing, nothing compared to that of an Academy Award–winning actress. Viola Davis, take a seat and behold my mother.
“Itohan,” my uncle says, stepping forward. “Calm down. Right now.”
Instantly, my mom’s antics mellow. Her wails reduce to shrill whines, and instead of jumping, she bounces on her toes.
“Azere.” My uncle turns to me. “You are a grown woman, so I will not interrogate you about your personal life and the decisions you make—no matter how stupid they are. You’re pregnant. Okay. The only question I have is, who is the father?”
Now, my mother stops bouncing. She waits for the answer like everyone else in the room.
“Um . . . well . . .” I look at the closed door and then through the slim slice of glass that exhibits a view of the hospital hallway, and I see Rafael. He’s out there, pacing with his head low and his hands stuffed in his pockets. Knowing he’s near somehow eases my nerves.
“Azere, answer me before I lose my patience,” my uncle says, irked. “Who is the father of your child?”
“He is. He’s the father.” My family’s gaze follows mine.
“The gardener!” Efe says, a hand to her chest. “You slept with the gardener?”
“He’s not a gardener.” Their eyes are on me again. “He’s my coworker.”
“Your coworker?” my uncle says. “And he came to your mother’s house under the guise of a gardener? To do what? Make a fool of us? What kind of rubbish is all this? What kind of game is he playing?”
“Uncle, it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Azere?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Then un-complicate it.”
“Okay. Well, he . . . um—”
“Azere,” my mother interjects. “Just wait. Just hold on one minute because I am misunderstanding something. When you looked through the door and said, ‘He’s the father,’ were you looking past the gardener and actually looking at Elijah?” I suppose she hasn’t digested the information I’ve offered. “Because Elijah is also standing out there. You were looking at Elijah, correct?”
“No, Mom. I wasn’t. Rafael is the father of my child.”
“Jesus!” She staggers back like she’s about to collapse, but my family and I know she’s being theatrical. “Zere.” She springs upright again. “You slept with a white man.”
“Mommy, he’s actually Spanish.”
“Will you shut up your mouth! What difference does that make? Eh?” She switches to Edo, lifting her hands to the ceiling and speaking to my father’s ghost. “Come and see what your daughter has done o! Come and see how she has shamed you! Come see the disgrace she has brought on your name!”
“Mommy, please. I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t get involved with a man who is not Nigerian, who is not Edo.” She speaks English now. “Azere, that was the last thing your father asked of you and the one thing I begged of you. And yet you did.” She wipes away falling tears, and when her eyes clear, disappointment, shame, and disgust are evident in them. Those emotions are directed at me. “You are not the daughter I hoped for. If your father were alive, I am sure he would say the same.”
Those words hit me like a knife, and I clench my chest, sustaining the pain rippling through me.
“Itohan!” my uncle protests her harsh words. “Be careful. Don’t say anything you will regret.”
“The only person who should have regrets is Azere.” She bunches her long dress in her quivering hand and hastens to the door.
“Itohan!” My uncle trails after her and together, they leave the room.
Upon their exit, Rafael and Elijah enter.
“Azere,” Rafael says, stepping to my bedside, “what’s wrong?”
“Are you okay?” Elijah speaks next, also stepping to my side. “Your mom stormed out of here. What’s going on?”
She didn’t tell them. My mother left furious but quiet, and I am so grateful. This time, her hysterics were kept to a minimum— contained within the walls of this room. Next time, she won’t be so gracious. All her anger will be directed at Rafael. Before that happens, I have to tell him the truth. He deserves to know.
“Everyone leave. Everyone but Rafael.”
They don’t move. They’re all standing still, eyes set on me.
“Efe. Jacob. Elijah. Get out. Now.”
My sister resists, but Jacob pulls her out. Hesitantly, Elijah follows.
“Azere, what’s going on?” Rafael asks. “What did the doctor say?” Gradually, his complexion turns ashen. “Are you okay?”
“Rafael, I . . . I need to tell you something.” My voice shakes as the truth works its way out the confines of my dry mouth. “Remember the night we first got together?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Well, um . . . I . . .”
“You’re what, Azere? What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”
“Rafael.” I grip the sheet underneath my body. “Because of that night, I’m pregnant. With your child.”
chapter
23
Rafael
What the fuck?
Azere’s confession is still ringing in my ears, but it hasn’t settled in my head because it’s far too absurd.
I stand from the chair I’ve been sitting in
, and she sniffs and wipes her wet eyes.
She cried after revealing the news and continued as I staggered into the chair. I remained seated for a few minutes, totally dumbfounded and unable to speak or look at her. Still, nothing has changed. I can’t talk to her and can barely look at her. Within minutes, everything between us has changed, and it’s all too much. I’m battling disbelief and confusion and outright shock.
I need to get out of here.
I head for the door, and on the verge of wrenching it open, her voice trembles and breaks around my name. I halt, and my forehead falls on the closed door.
“I don’t understand. We used protection, Azere.”
“Well, it didn’t work.” She sighs. “It’s yours, Rafael. I swear. I haven’t been with anyone else since.”
It’s strange that I believe her instantly. Her confession is no longer ringing in my ears, but settling in my head as truth, and I have questions.
“When did you find out you were pregnant?”
In a shaky voice, she explains. As she speaks, an unexpected emotion crops up. Anger. I spin around, scowling.
“You’ve known for over a week and you said nothing!”
How could she do something like that? We spent the night together. We were intimate in more ways than one, and she kept a secret of that magnitude from me.
“Why didn’t you tell me last night?”
“Because . . . because I thought you wouldn’t want this. I thought it would be too much for you.”
“Well, you thought wrong, Azere.”
“Did I? Do you really want a kid you never planned?”
Seconds pass, and I don’t reply. The answer is on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason, perhaps fear, it doesn’t fall.
“Listen,” she says. “I’ve already decided. I’m keeping it. I want it.” She shuts her eyes, pushing back tears. “I won’t ask you to make the same decision or take on the same responsibility. You can walk away . . . if . . . if that’s what you want. I’ll understand. You didn’t ask for any of this. It was supposed to be a one-night stand—no strings attached. But then this happened.”
“Exactly. This happened. And I’m not just going to walk away.” I’m vocal again, expressing my intentions regardless of fear. “Azere, there’s no way in hell I’m walking away from you or my . . .” I clear my throat. I clench my jaw. Tears gather underneath my eyelids, making them heavy. I look at her and look away. “My child.” My child. The words rattle something deep inside me, and my knees go weak. I stumble backward, into the chair I sat in minutes ago. My shuddering hands come over my eyes and tears pool in them.
“Rafael.” She shuffles off the bed and rushes to me. “I know it’s a lot.” She squats at my feet. Her hands move over my legs, up and down, attempting to soothe me. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m so sorry. I was scared. I was so scared and confused. But you’re right. I should have told you sooner.”
She believes I’m upset because of the secret she kept, but there’s so much more to it. Maybe I should explain that to her. But what will she think of me once she learns about my past? Will she consider me broken, damaged, irredeemable? Will she still want me? I don’t know, but I can’t risk losing her. She means too much to me, so I’ll bear the baggage of my past silently—like I always have—and build something new with her.
“Azere.” I rub my face, ridding it of tears. “I’m just a little overwhelmed.” I look down at her, eyes bearing more worry than they should in her state. “But I’m supposed to be strong. For you.”
“We can take turns,” she says. “Next time, it’s my turn to have a breakdown. You can be strong for me then.”
“Okay.” I nod, smiling. “Deal.”
“Rafael.” She searches my eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Come here.” I take her hands and jerk her toward my legs. “Sit.”
She settles in. Her small frame curves against mine, and her ear rests over my beating heart as if she needs proof I’m breathing, that I’m okay.
“Azere, I’m scared,” I admit. “Scared out of my mind.”
“Me too, Rafael.”
“This is crazy.”
“Insane.”
“Zere, I’m not walking away.”
She lifts her head and looks at me. “I don’t want you to.” She exhales as if relieved by her admission. Again, her ear finds the spot on my chest where my heart thumps the loudest.
We sit like this for a long while, my arms keeping her secure, her presence soothing my angst.
“Rafael,” she whispers. “Last night, when you said more, you didn’t have this in mind. This is a lot.”
“Yeah. It is.” It’s more than I could have ever imagined, but there’s a joy that emerges when my hand falls on Azere’s stomach. “We’ll get through this,” I assure her. “Together.”
“Yeah.” Her hand comes over mine. “Together.”
chapter
24
It’s Sunday, a day after the disclosure of my pregnancy. I’m at my mom’s house. My uncle has summoned everyone for a family meeting, including Rafael. He’s sitting beside me, holding my hand under the dining table.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I’m not. My family are a panel of judges, and I’m awaiting their judgment. What will it be? Will my mother disown me? Will my uncle strangle Rafael? He’s shooting him a baleful glance that indicates he might. This is a disaster. I emit a burst of air, and my back slacks, leaning into the chair.
Dinner—salad, baked chicken, jollof rice, and fried plantain— is on the table. Opposite Rafael and me, Jacob and Efe sit side by side. My uncle is at the head of the table, glowering at the space across from him where my mother should be. We’ve been waiting for her to appear for ten minutes. The wait has been long and unnerving.
“I’ll go see what’s keeping her,” Efe says, pushing her chair back. As she stands, the rubber soles of slippers tip-tap toward the dining room, signaling my mother’s approach. “I guess she’s coming.” Efe attempts to retake her seat but pauses midair and gawks. “Shit,” she murmurs.
My stare trails hers, and my stomach drops at the sight of my mother.
Oh my God.
I know she’s angry, but how could she go this far? She’s wearing a black buba and wrapper, the same traditional attire she wore to mourn my father.
For six months after his death, she wore these clothes—put them on every day like they were her uniform. We weren’t permitted to laugh briefly or live momentarily without the reminder of our loss. Even as we prepared to leave Nigeria, she packed variations of black clothes in her suitcase because it was what our tradition demanded of a widow—to never forget, to honor her husband in the most tragic form, to wear her misery like it was her sole identity.
When she finally wore colors, the burden of our loss became lighter. Now, looking at my mother, dressed in black, the weight of my father’s death comes back like a hammer to my head. Past pain resurfaces and I lose my breath.
“It’s okay,” Rafael whispers into my ear. “Breathe, Zere. Breathe.”
His hand draws circles on my back, and I meet his stare and slowly catch my breath.
“There you go.” He kisses my forehead. “You’re okay.”
“Itohan!” my uncle says, lunging to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Ah-ahn. What do you mean?” She’s acting coy, like she’s done nothing wrong.
“Itohan, why are you dressed like this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I am in mourning, of course.”
“Mourning?” He’s probing for a response I don’t want to hear.
“I am mourning my daughter. Azere.” Her voice is hard and cold, not even a hint of emotion to humanize it. “As of yesterday, she is dead to me.”
I turn to her and speak Edo, askin
g why she’s doing this.
“Because you are a disappointment, Azere,” she responds in English, and I’m sure it’s because she wants Rafael to hear every insult she throws at me. “I am ashamed of you. You are not the daughter I raised.”
“Mommy, I understand you’re angry and disappointed. I totally get it. But how could you go so far? How could you wear those clothes, the same clothes you used to mourn Baba?” I rub my teary eyes. “You knew what that would do to me.”
“And you knew what this”—she gestures at Rafael—“would do to me. If you cannot take my feelings into consideration, why should I take yours?”
And that’s all I can tolerate. “Okay,” I say, standing. “We’re leaving.” I nudge Rafael, and he stands as well.
“Azere.” My uncle turns to me. “Sit down.”
“Uncle, no. I can’t do this. We’re leaving.”
“Sit! Now!”
His thunderous voice makes me squeal. Quickly, I retake my seat, and Rafael does the same.
“Itohan.” He turns to my mother, and his forehead creases, skin folding and overlapping as he scowls. “Change your clothes into something appropriate and rejoin us.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but words don’t come out. Perhaps the resolve in my uncle’s eyes has rendered her mute.
“Go and change, Itohan. Right now. I do not want to repeat myself.”
Her exit isn’t delayed.
In her absence, no one speaks. Minutes later, when she reappears, it’s in a colorful short-sleeved dress made of ankara. She enters the dining room and sits in the chair opposite my uncle. Still, no one speaks or attempts to eat the food spread out.
“Well, I’ve lost my appetite,” my uncle says. “Anyone still willing to eat?”
Silence.
“Well, then. Efe, please clear the table.”
My sister stands and gathers bowls and cutlery. Jacob assists her, and they take the food into the kitchen.
“Let’s get straight to this matter.” My uncle clears his throat. “Rafael, in Nigeria, when a situation such as this occurs, both families come together to discuss a solution. I’m disappointed neither one of your parents could make it to this meeting.”