Preordained #ProjectNigeria

8- My Baby

For all the children out there who are suffering in one way or the other, be it starvation or illness, abuse or loneliness. This dedication won't do nada to help y'all, but I have you in mind. Gosh, I feel so useless right now.

Maduka's POV:

That night, I relive the day I had found the baby with such clarity that I actually think it's happening to me again:

"Give me the baby," the man said in Igbo, arms outstretched.

I held her closer to myself and moved away from the edge of the dumpster. I wasn't going to let anyone take her from me; I was already fiercely protective of her. Pa Andrew had gone and left me and no one was going to take this baby from me. In my seven-year-old mind, I was certain that I now had a sister, that I would take care of her and we would grow up together.

"No!" I yelled. While staying with Pa Andrew, he had told me stories of this wicked world, of how people used human body parts for rituals to get rich, and of how babies were the best because of their innocence and purity. Well, this one wasn't going to make anyone rich.

"What will you do with it?"

"I'll take care of her!"

By now other workers and even passersby were gathering to watch the scene, of a little street urchin yelling at a man while holding onto a wailing baby.

"Let me take her to the hospital, she's sick."

"You want to use her for ogwu ego!" You want to use her for money rituals!

The crowd present made a surprised sound. The man let out a laugh.

"Wonders shall never end!"

"What a wicked world!"

"Baby wey some people no fit born!" A baby that some couples can't give birth to!

Then a young woman stepped forward, pity written all over her face. She was wearing a shirt with the letters NYSC printed on the front, and green trousers.

"My dear, let me take you to the hospital instead, you hear?" she said softly.

I watched her for a few moments, wondering if I could trust her or not. She stretched out a hand towards me, and I took it tentatively, my eyes fixed on her smile. I was helped out of the dumpster, but I never let go of the baby.

"God help them!" I heard some people say in the crowd.

"This is what happened at Okigwe; but the baby wasn't so lucky. It had died."

"My sister is childless and stupid people are busy doing things like this."

The young woman stopped an okada- commercial motorcycle rider- and helped me get on it.

"Sick Bay Children's Hospital," she told the rider. After a short ride, we got to a small street and stopped in front of a building. At the gate we met a white woman dressed in a long white gown, who smiled at me and introduced herself as Sister Benedicta with an accent I had never heard before. She looked so serene, gazing down at me with soft brown eyes.

"My baby," I choked, thrusting the baby up to her face. "Sick."

I remember being swept into the compound. Everything happened in a blur. We were whisked into a dark green building, the baby was taken from me after much persuasion, and I was taken to another room to be examined and prodded gently by reverend sisters dressed in white lab coats with their habits on their heads. Blood, urine and stool samples were taken.

All through the ordeal, the young woman who had brought us there stayed with me, calming me down each time I asked of 'my baby'. I felt like she was mine now, that we were going to be together because nobody wanted us.

Washed, dressed in clean clothes and fed after a while, I was led into the nursery by another soft spoken reverend sister to see my baby. The Youth Corper had hurried off, promising to visit us soon. I had held onto her hand, said thank you, and begged her to please come back.

Sister Benedicta was there in the nursery, sitting on a chair admist cots and gently brushing the baby's hair and cooing to her. I noticed a bandage over her tiny right arm.

"Come, love" Sister Benedicta beckoned me.

I stepped towards her and she handed the baby to me gently. Clean and fed, she smelled so nice that I breathed in her scent deeply. Her eyes were no longer swollen like before and she'd stopped making sucking noises. Her dark hair was thick and curly, so soft. I buried my nose in it.

"Where are you from?" Sister Benedicta asked quietly.

There was no way I was going back home. Mama and Papa were dead, and nobody wanted me anymore. I didn't know the way back home, and I wasn't eager to ask for directions.

"I don't know," I replied. "I don't know where I'm from."

She studied me for a while, trying to figure out if I was a runaway or not.

"How old is she?" I asked in a hushed voice.

"Maybe a week old."

"Why didn't her parents want her?"

I honestly could not understand why someone would throw away such a beautiful creature. Who would not want a baby?

"I don't know, dear," she replied sadly, a hand reaching out to touch my face. The love she showed me made me feel warm inside; I had been starved of affection for so long.

"Will she have a birthday?"

"Ninth of March, 1996."

"She doesn't have a name, Sister Benedicta."

She bent to look me in the eye, hers holding excitement. "Why don't you name her, love?"

I looked down at the baby and told myself that surely, the God that Papa and Mama had so often told me about, was going to make sure this baby grew into greatness.

Yes, she would marry a king!

Kings were rich, weren't they? They were powerful, and surely hers would protect her, and then she wouldn't have to bother about things like food and a home and fancy clothes. My father was no king, but I had always seen him as one. His name had been Ezenna. I remembered the name my mother had so fondly been called.

"I'll name her Nwanyieze."

"What does that mean?"

"The King's Wife."

A/N: I had a hard time writing this and keeping my eyes dry.