H🔸A🔸B🔸I🔸B🔸A🔸T

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  Two years had passed since Amos left Nigeria. I was missing him so badly, that I couldn’t wait for him to get back home in time for Christmas.
  “How are the twins?”
  “The twins are fine.” My response came.
  The loud ringing of his cellphone jolted him. “I will call you back.” He said and hung up.
  A bit of sadness strung my heart at the slight beeping of my phone. I heaved a sigh, and rubbed my cheeks—it was lonely being in the mansion with only the kids. Though I had everything, it was boring being holed up inside.

  Two years. Two years… going to three! The kids kept asking me when their dad would return. It seemed I wasn’t the only one missing him; we all needed him. And I prayed the Lord brought him home safe.

  “I’ll be coming back next week—” Amos announced on the phone.
  “Really?”
  The twins came forward on hearing me yell. “Mommy, what is it?”
  “Daddy is coming back,”
  “Yay!!! Can we talk to him?”
  I handed them the phone and they began talking.
  “E kaasan, daddy,”
  “E kaasan.”
  I left to tend to the dishes.
  My prayer was answered—Amos came home at exactly the time the kids were at home. We happily welcomed him, the kids much happier. I helped him with the luggage, and after much kisses, we went into the bedroom, and he carried me onto the bed.
  “You didn’t miss me much, did you?” our eyes locked, then our lips met.
  “You know I missed you… so much!” we kissed again. The neatly spread bedsheets rustled underneath us as we moved, my hips arching, with my legs clasping his waist. My heart pounded, as I watched him remove his clothes. I stri**ed to my underwear, and let him between my legs.

  “I thought they said s*x renders one unconscious?” I asked after much series of hot m*ke o*t.
   “No.” He chuckled, and my lips spread. I felt comfortable in his arms, purring like a kitten.

  The year was almost ending and Christmas was fast approaching. It was going to be our first as a family. Each time I talked about it, Amos would say no word but act like it didn’t matter.
  “Why don’t you like it when I talk about Christmas?” something in me made me ask.
  He ignored me and glued his eyes on the paper. The headline was boldly written on it, the name clearly visible.
  “Vanguard—” I read, trying to distract myself.
  “I don’t know. I just don’t see why we should celebrate it.”
  I said, “Only someone who’s not religious would say that,”
  He fixed a stern look at me… and I asked, “You’re not going to say anything?” He looked back at the newspaper. “Keep pushing me.” His face had gotten another look.
  Please, Lord, don’t tell me I’m married to a non-religious person. All this won’t make sense, I prayed silently, hearing the rhythmic thumping of my heart.

  The following day was a weird one. I woke up to the hard straining of my head and the bad rumbling of my stomach.
  Feeling the urge to vomit, I quickly went into the bathroom and poured every content out in the sink. I was feeling pale—sick. And I spent time in the bathroom, alerting Amos.
  “What’s wrong?”
  “I’m fine,” I didn’t want to look at his face. Not after what had gone on yesterday.
  “But you’re vomiting…”
  “I said I’m fine, Amos!” I gritted, banging the bathroom door.

  The doctor confirmed that I was pregnant. While handing me the result, he asked if I was married… something he had done before. “Thank you.” I ignored his question, thanking him instead.

  Amos had gone to work when I’d arrived. It was a relief; one I couldn’t help but give a sigh since I wasn’t ready to tell him about the baby. I kept the envelope in the drawer and made to slide out of my gown. Making for the bathroom, I got in the bathtub and got the shower running, letting the water cool me from my head, down.


The weather was cold and the harmattan got my nose all blocked. I couldn’t breathe or move due to the cold and was freezing, my blood constricting. The hairs on my skin weren’t left out; they were raised, with the blood narrowing the road to where it laid. My teeth were clenched, and my eyes partly closed; the image I could make out—it was Amos observing me, his question coming next. “Cold?”
“Y-yes,”
“It’s half-past eleven. Want me to fix you breakfast?”
The urge to vomit came again, but I held it in and sat up.
“I’m not hungry.” I said and slipped my feet into my slippers. I took my brush and went into the bathroom next—brushed, bathed, came out, then—“When were you going to tell me?”
  I was confused at first, then I remembered. The envelope! My eyes rolled in their sockets. I’d forgotten I hadn’t removed it from the drawer. Lips dry, mouth not having anything to say, I gaped, heart racing, blood pulsing. He drew closer and showed me the paper he had taken out. “This!”
  I gulped, not knowing what to say. “I was going to tell you—” my lips finally moved.
  “Tell me when?”
  I said nothing but watched.
  “Habibat, so this is how you want it?”
  I was lost. “Want what?”
  “You’re pregnant and you couldn’t even tell your husband?!”
My mouth was jammed.
“How long have you known?”
  I replied, “Since yesterday,”
He thundered. “Yesterday?!” he stood akimbo, rolling his eyes at me. “And you want me to believe?”
I shifted back in fear. “I swear, it was yesterday,”
He tossed the paper on the bed, along with the envelope. “I really cannot believe you!” he said and left.
  My heart was heavy and filled with regret. You should have told him in the first place, millions of voices echoed in my head. I sat shakily on the bed and took up the paper, with my fingers running on its plains and eyes directed on my tum. I let out a frustrated sigh, scared to think I had gotten on his angry side. “Oh, what did I do?” I breathed heavily and got up to dress.