The Crack in the Promise

Dear God,

Hmmm.

The silence was too long, and I thought the line had dropped. But she was there, reliving the experience in her mind. Walking through her horror again without pain. And when she continued, her voice was matter of fact.

“The pregnancy was a nightmare. It was as if my body was in a battle of supremacy. I was retained in the hospital for weeks and they had another procedure to help hold the pregnancy in. By the 2nd trimester, I met another doctor and he kept frowning at my size. He said that I needed another scan that I was too big for a 1st pregnancy. Anyway, they did and everyone was shocked. I was carrying twins. The second heartbeat was not identified because according to the doctor, it was hiding behind the 1st and pushing hard in all my organs.

Twins! An almost- virgin with Twins. Another Miracle.

An incident happened that should have been my trigger, but I excused it again. He was always talking to someone in the middle of the night. Especially when I was asleep. He convinced me that whoever was his business partner and because of the time difference, he had to communicate at night. Sometimes he will leave the room to do that. On one occasion, I heard, “I love you, it would soon be over”.

Did Americans tell their business partner I love you? Well, I didn’t know that much. After we discovered I was carrying twins, I heard him again talking with great excitement to the business Partner and said, “Its twins……two made it”. Two made it? How many was he expecting? Did he know how many would come from every pregnancy? It didn’t make sense, but I was too far gone to process it. I had already bonded with the children and was willing to accept anything on their behalf.

(My mentor once said; When you want rain badly, even thunder sounds romantic. This sure suited the case).

At seven months, we moved into a larger house. Bigger gates. Taller fences. Quieter secrets. I had no friends. Could see nobody. My phone was taken “for my safety.” Family visits were restricted “because of high-risk pregnancy.” My mother was told I would give birth in America. “I believed everything,” she said quietly. “Because belief was easier than suspicion.” Even the doctors were part of the conspiracy because they told me some Cock-&-Bull stories about my mental health. I accepted.

(When you are being played, every angle is 90 degrees, according to my cousin).

The labour came like a storm without warning. Eight hours of mind-bugling pains. I still had 2 weeks to go before the elected date, but the twins had other plans. Either I bring them out or they tie my womb apart. “I cried, I prayed, I promised God anything.” Finally, they had to operate immediately, and then a baby boy and a baby girl arrived.

“My children. I fell in love at 1st sight,” she whispered.

In that moment, no conspiracy existed. Only skin-to-skin warmth. Only the ancient miracle of life giving breathe to life. I had loved them and named them in my heart before anyone else could. For eight months, they lived inside that love. I could face anything even a loveless marriage for their sake.

But then, the house began to change rhythm.

“1st, the so-called business partner appeared. “But partners don’t rearrange the kitchen. Partners don’t instruct house staff in whispers.” The woman was elegant. And comfortable in a way that made the house airtight.

“Who is she?” I asked more than once.

“I already told you,” he replied without looking up. “Behave yourself.”

Behave myself? Okay, I did. But the strange arrangement didn’t seat well with me, so, one afternoon, I confronted my husband again.

“Why does she act like she is their mother?” His jaw tightened.

“You ask too many questions.”

“Because I am their mother, but I am treated like a nanny.”

He laughed, a cold, brief sound.

“Nanny?” he repeated. “Don’t be dramatic.”

That was the first crack of the storm in my heart. They kept managing me, enough time for the children to bond with her. I noticed they would give me something to make me sleep. I was always sleepy, always tired,” she said. “I thought it was vitamins.” While I slept my life away, they were making their exit plan. Maybe if my mum was with me or anyone that had my interest at heart…. maybe.

The second storm was realising that I had some very serious complications during childbirth. And they had to cut my womb. And no one told me. Something about the walls of my womb and to save me, they had to do some emergency surgery or I bleed out. That I learnt later. Hmmm.

The real earthquake came three months later.

“The boy fell from the crib,” they told me one morning.

My husband was furious. “If anything happens to that child, I will hold you responsible.”

Responsible? For a child I barely got to hold. The baby was “in the hospital.” Three days passed. I was not allowed to see them. Then came the final announcement.

“They’ve taken them to America. It’s critical.”

Critical? That word swallowed me.

“That was the last time I saw them,” she said.

My husband left with the elegant woman. The woman I got to know was his legal wife. Weeks passed. Then months. My body refused to cooperate with reality. Milk flowed stubbornly. Breasts ached with unfulfilled purpose.

“My body did not get the memo that my children were gone.”

She laughed again. That sharp, broken laugh.

“I begged God to let me die.” But death did not answer. Instead, truth did. It came slowly. Like dirty water rising through cracks. I discovered what no bride should ever discover: That he was already married. That for ten years they were childless and desperate. That the hospital visits were not preparation for intimacy. That they were preparation for implantation. That even the children had no biological identity with me. That I was just a vessel. A legal vessel.

“I was not a wife,” she said. “I was a strategy.” The Nigerian Strategy. Because in Nigeria, marriage granted a man access, legitimacy and control. Why pay a surrogate when you can marry one? Why sign contracts when culture does the paperwork for you?

“They married me to make it clean,” she said. “To make it unquestionable and they destroyed me in the end.”

The children I laboured for were never legally mine. The pain didn’t register at 1st. My brain was numb. I couldn’t cry. I was devastated yet speechless. So many lies. Too many to contain. Did the child even fall? Was it even critical? Was it all a lie? The same lies?

I ran to my parents and guess what? My family’s response broke something else inside me. “They wanted settlement,” she said. They even suggested I travel to America and continue having babies for the man. I have helped the woman have her own child, I can have mine and be happy. I didn’t want to tell my mum about the surgery. Who knows if I would even be able to have my own children even if I wanted again? Who knows what they did to me? The man had made my parents a promise, to keep the marriage and be their benefactor for life. And that was enough for them.”

“You see why I told you that Chiamaka had the best of fathers in the world. Poverty is a disease, but I am over it. I would rather die than have anything to do with those ruts again,” she said her voice trembling.

I sought legal counsel. But we had no court marriage. No church record. Traditional rites only. So, the court advised me to seek family counsel. If I pursued it, I will be a long process, expensive and emotionally draining with little or no consequences. In other words: I should endure quietly.

And that was when she broke down completely and wept. I held the line, waiting for the storm to subside. I was cuing in soft nonsense, because I tell you, Lord, what shall we say to this thing?

Hmmm.

The one thing known in this matter is that we can’t even rely on the system.

The system nurtures silence that protects the ones with the currency and this one has the hard currency. How, Lord, how can a womb carry life yet have no legal voice to it? When tradition shields cruelty, shouldn’t we rewrite that tradition?

In fact, well-meaning relatives urged her to reconcile. That she would be better off aligning with them than fighting them. Even her parents, wanted her to stay married. At a time, she stopped begging to have the children. And she started thinking. And a woman thinking is far more dangerous than the one with tears. She has not forgotten, she has not forgiven, she was planning a come back…. or so she says.

This is your daughter, I am still holding my breathe until later, let me check in for now.