The Secret Place
Image: Paul Bulai
The baby has just reached that stage where it could rock your tummy. You felt every one of its movements inside you; there was this weird ache in your belly. You sprawled on the sofa and sniffed the air in the sitting room. It smelt of Babajide, reminded you of his absence: Babajide, your husband, who had left for the University of Ibadan, again, to see his PhD supervisor. When he was leaving, standing by the door, stroking your chubby cheeks, saying how he won’t be gone for long, you could not stop the tears from flowing, you did not try to stop the tears from flowing. Some part of you hoped that he’d see your tears, fling his bag to the other end of the room, jump out his shoes, and hold you so tight that he too would feel the baby kicking. But he just bade you goodbye, turned his back to you, and walked away without looking back, not even once.
You kissed the ring on your finger, whispered to it, “Love you, dear.” Then you bade him a very, very tired goodbye with that same hand even though he had disappeared around the bend. That man’s paces were fast; if you didn’t know better, you’d have thought that he was running away from you. But you knew Babajide and how he walked, like something was after his life. You had stood there, right on that spot by the door, many times, watching him take long strides as he hurried to catch the first bus to Ibadan. It was the most difficult part of your journey as husband and wife, and you never got used to seeing him leave you behind.
Four and a half months ago, before he travelled, Babajide and you had gone to the hospital for another round of tests. The doctor was a close family friend—the best-man-at-your-wedding close—and had requested the tests because you kept pestering him, and your husband. He looked at your curious face, then your husband’s, crossed his fingers, and stared at the computer screen in front of him. You braced yourself for bad news. You knew the next words you’d hear would be laced with grief.
“Errm, the labs are still fine, Jide and Bisola. You both are alright. The pregnancy will happen.”
You heaved, cupped your palms over your face, and muttered words that only you could decipher.
Neither of you spoke for a while after you left the hospital. Your husband seemed to be engrossed in his driving. The silence was unbearable for you. You expected him to have said something; he usually always had something to say about everything—except this. Most times you were relieved he did not seem to bother too much with the childlessness of your home, relieved he did not blame you for that. But sometimes, like this moment in the car, you wanted him to say something, wanted him to be angry, perhaps even suggest a solution, maybe propose that you see another doctor.
“Sweetheart,” you prodded, “I thought Doctor Akinwumi was going to say something very scary with the way he behaved before he told us the results.”
The abruptness of his foot on the brake pedal was such that were you not wearing a seatbelt, the windshield would have been your only defence against splattered grey matter on the roadside. He touched your right knee.
“Sorry, dear.”
“Where was your mind?”
He smiled like a naughty child that had been caught with his hand in the pot of soup.
You repeated your question, slower this time, even though you knew he heard you the first time.
“I wonder too o. He sha said we’re both fine. Let’s just trust God. Olorun lo n kuku s’omo.”
That evening, you wept, again, when you saw your panty liner and knew you had to wear a pad before you slept that night. You watched your face in the bathroom mirror, no makeup. You couldn’t believe that the old woman looking back at you was you.
You moved closer to the mirror and sighed. “This is my fifth year, Lord.”
Two weeks later, your husband was leaving for Ibadan, and your life was about to change forever.
It came as a crippling headache, pounding like thunderclaps and making your eyes and nose water. You called the doctor: this was not a paracetamol kind of headache. Since Coronavirus, the hospital was a dreaded place for you, and a headache, no matter its severity, was not going to make you go there. Doctor Akinwumi rushed to your house, a face mask clutched in his hand. He asked some questions, examined you, started throwing all these medical terms around, and even though you tried to listen, it wasn’t long before he too noticed that faraway look in your eyes.
“Jide nko?” he asked, perhaps to bring you back to the room.
“He went to Ibadan ni o. I am not even sure again who he is married to. Me or Professor Raji. Even with the lockdown, he found a way to Ibadan.”
As he listened to you, he occasionally looked at his wristwatch. You pretended you didn’t notice and continued talking. He was the first person to visit you in two weeks, and you were starved of company. You told him you were sorry for keeping him, that loneliness was eating you like eba, that Jide’s absence made you feel the void of childlessness even more. You broke into tears. He moved closer to you and drew you to his chest. “It is well, Bisola. God will do it for you.”
You were not sure God was interested in doing anything for you. You just wanted to cry. Your tears were messing up his shirt, but he did not seem to mind, kept stroking your hair, begging you to stop hurting yourself. You felt his soft palm on your scalp as his fingers worked into your new braids. It soothed you. You turned your face, raised your head, and rubbed your lips on his beard. It smelt of lavender and pine. Your lips clasped his. His lips felt cool like the air after morning rain. You pushed the doctor into the waters of desire and made him drown in it. What is it about sorrow that makes humans just want to do sensual things?
When he climaxed, in you, a waft of silence filled the room.
He wore his boxer, zipped his trousers, and hurried into his car. You saw the guilt on his face as he fumbled with the hook of his trousers.
You heard his car's engine roar into life, and you couldn’t tell whether you just smiled or sighed.
Your soul started to give way to the weights of regret. You began to smell his semen on your body. You rushed to the bathroom, parted your thighs, and scrubbed with a sponge and soap. Your right hand began to ache, so you changed to the left. You rinsed, but the smell refused to leave. It was like an omelette that had gone bad. You scrubbed again, made the soap lather, scrubbed harder.
You couldn’t explain, but you just feared your husband would perceive this odour too whenever he returned to the house. The odour lingered. You cannot tell if it was your mind playing tricks on you. But you did not want to take any chances, so you douched your body with Nivea, the one with aloe vera fragrance. If anything could avert this looming doom that lurked around your five-year-old marriage, aloe vera had to be it.
* * *
It has been four months and two weeks since that incident with the doctor happened, four full months without your monthly flow. You were graced with the kind of body that could conceal the thing housed in your womb. You had not told your husband. When he made statements about your tummy and your increased appetite, you wanted to jump on him and tell him that you were eating for two. That morning when you kissed your ring finger and watched him rush to catch the first bus to Ibadan, you had wanted to tell him so bad, give him some good news to carry with him on the bus. But you couldn’t work up the courage to bequeath to him a baby that you were not certain was his. That morning you promised yourself that when he got back this time, you’d tell him. Yet when he did a week later, you still were not ready.
The first month you missed your period, you had waited until your husband left the house for work before you unwrapped the pregnancy test kit. You tiptoed to the bathroom, examining everywhere as if you didn’t bathe there every morning, made the sign of the cross, then peed on the strip. Two red lines appeared on the plastic kit and confirmed what you had hoped for, what you had known, what you had feared. Your feet became cold and tingled. You didn’t feel happy, or sad. You just felt bland like water on the tongue of someone who was not that thirsty.
Since your husband came back, he has been behaving strangely. You had begun to show but not show-show like that. You knew that there was no more time to dally. Just beside the wall clock by the kitchen, a spider was entrapping a tired insect in its webs. Nature can be very poetic, you thought. You sent the doctor a text on WhatsApp: We need to see urgently. You felt you had to tell the doctor that you were pregnant, and you didn’t know who got you pregnant, him or your husband. One tick, two ticks, no blue. He was not online. You let your phone roll on the bed. You kept checking your phone throughout the day, still no blue tick. Did he read the message on his notification bar and choose to ignore you? Was it one of those days that he saw patient after patient? Was it that he did not know what to say? You forced everything you did that day, drained completely of enthusiasm, your mind haunted by a million thoughts. You had even made yam and egg sauce for your husband and the doctor that afternoon, hours before you sent the text. The driver from work had come to pick it up. Did he eat your yam but not reply your text?
Your husband came home from work that evening, later than usual. You still had not figured out how to tell him about the baby when you withdrew from the weak hug he gave you, something was off.
"Honey, you seem numb. Are you okay?"
He lowered his head for what seemed like ages. “Akinwumi died this evening.”
That weird ache gathered in your belly again. You winced as you lurched down into the sofa. You could not even cry. You that cried for the silliest of things. Babajide was at his most quiet. He even refused to eat. Doctor Akinwumi was his best friend, so you understood. As the night grew, your broken soul began to yearn for a certain kind of warmth. You sat up in bed and let your hands run on your husband's body briskly. You cleared your throat, and the words sprawled from your lips before you could catch yourself: "I think I am pregnant for Doctor.”
You could hear the wall clock ticking and a dog barking outside. The silence widened like an ocean gyre, and it felt like you were right in the middle of its rage. You started to cry, mumbling between tears: "I am pregnant, and I am not sure this thing growing inside me is yours, Jide." You waited for your husband's anger to descend on you like strokes of heavy rain. You waited, but it did not come. He just stared at you, got off the bed, and walked backwards until his back hit the door. Then he too began to sob.
You placed your left palm on your head and a finger between your lips. “Wa dariji mi ni ife mi. I'm sorry to make you weep, oko mi, but I can explain.”
He didn’t seem to be listening to you. So loud were his sobs that when he spoke, you almost did not hear him: “I too cannot stay in this secret place anymore. I killed Akinwumi. I poisoned the lunch you sent us today.”
You crouched on your knees, shivering. Sweat broke out all over your face.
“Akinwumi and I have been feeding you fake lab results. My semen has no sperm cells; it is sterile. Akinwumi started expressing concerns over this secret recently, and I feared you would get to know that I am impotent.” He grabbed his neck, squeezing it with both of his hands as if to strangle himself. “I am sorry, Bisola”
A certain kind of wrath whetted your soul. The baby inside you kicked, again, as if to remind you of its presence, as if to blame you, as if to vindicate you.
About the author
Adesina Ajala is a Nigerian writer and poet. His works appear in the Anthology of Poetically Written Prose 2021, The Nigeria Review, Too Well away, Ngiga Review, Red Letter Journal, The Shallow Tales Review, Nantygreens and elsewhere. He's the co-winner TSWF Writers Prize and a two-time winner of the Fodio Data Stipend for Poetry. Adesina is a member of the Charis Collective and a medical doctor. He is on Twitter and Instagram as @adesina_ajala.
