I reasoned that I just wanted to test my idea's feasibility and stuck to that thought when I called a doctor friend to ask about the possibility. The guy laughed and said maybe. Crazy, but possible. I then consulted Doctor Google to verify and get price estimates and was shocked at the wealth of information. The internet had information on everything from how to act, dress and eat in the three trimesters to fool people, to websites selling fake ultrasound results and doctors' reports. This was good news but there were three main problems.
First problem: Damilola. How would I trick my husband despite him touching and feeling her stomach? Stuffed clothes and beach balls wouldn't work in this case. If I could solve problem one, problem two was getting a doctor qualified enough to do the surgeries, and insane or greedy enough to actually agree to her scam. My final problem was of course getting a baby. There would be no point to the whole scam if I could not produce a real, live, screaming baby.
Restlessly, I shift in my chair and place my head on the table. Scheming is brain work and I had a headache to prove it. It is a few minutes to four and I am so glad it's Friday. Dami has a friend's wedding in Ijebu so I will be alone till Sunday. Normally I would be missing him but my evil thoughts have put me in a constant state of jitteriness and anxiety. Every look makes me wonder if he knows something or suspects my plans.
Once the clock strikes four, I am out of the office like a shot. Since Dami is not home, I do not have to make an elaborate dinner and would probably settle for a cup of garri with groundnuts and milk. The ride home is uneventful. The roads are full of tired and cranky workers eager to get home. Damilola calls when I am halfway home to tell me he and his buds are safe in their hotel in Ijebu. I ask him to greet the groom and tell him I'll talk to him later. We exchange I love yous and click off.
On getting home, I waste no time in stripping down to take a shower. I feel sticky and uncomfortable. You feel guilty, a sinister voice whispers in my ear and it is so loud I jerk back to look over my shoulder. My eyes meet the plain tiled floor and white walls of our bathroom. I am the only one there. Huffing silently while reprimanding myself for my nervousness, I take a long shower, enjoying the scent of my Olay body wash, and coconut scented shampoo.
Wrapped in a chiffon scarf (Cos I am the only one at home), I drink my dinner and get ready for bed. I called Damilola earlier and he was going to take a nap in preparation for the Bachelor's eve scheduled to hold later in the night. I call him again before bed, but it goes to voicemail. Assuming the party has started, I send him a loving voice message and go to bed. As my close, I decide sleepily that my plans will be well thought out by the end of the weekend. This would be my year of babies and spit bubbles, and nothing was going to stop it. Nothing and no one.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Good things come in troublesome packages
रोमांसSalome is tired. And frustrated. She is tired of well meaning comments, and not so subtle digs about the thing she wants most in life. She is tired of people constantly asking about her children. Or rather, her lack of children. While outwardly calm...
