The Scent of Promise

Dear God,

The day began like any other. I was sitting comfortably on the couch in my library, my tea cooling on a side stool, unfinished thoughts staring at me from my laptop and then my phone rang.

“Hi…” The female voice trembled like a leaf unsure of the wind.

“Hello, how may I help you Ma’am, I said putting on my professional cap immediately.”

“You’re Ifee, right?” the voice asked, hopeful and careful, as if testing water with a toe.

“That would be correct, who am I speaking with?”

“I read your post on my cousin’s phone. You write beautifully”. She said

Ah, thanks, I smiled. But paused. I usually don’t like it when people skip their intro on the phone. But I liked the flattery.

“I still didn’t get the name”, I insisted

There was a silence that tasted like courage being measured. “My name is Sussan Udezue. I read a lot of the stories on your blog”, she continued quickly. “It’s funny how you write to God like he is your buddy. I really love it…” “Like you are not afraid of Him……,” she giggled a little.

I smiled. “Hmmm, I’d rather love Him than fear Him. I just talk anyway, I’m not sure He minds my ramblings.”

“It’s beautiful and fun”, she sighed

I grunted, a little embarrassed.

There was silence. The kind where someone is deciding whether to bleed in front of you or not.

“They are true life stories, right?”

“Yes, Mostly, but with discreet names…….I wouldn’t want to spook anyone”, I said rolling my eyes at my system.

She laughed.

“I could tell when I read them, the stories come alive and you could feel it deeply. I have a similar situation with Chiamaka but in a weird sort of way” she sighed.

Silence.

“You want to talk about it? Sometimes, talking to strangers are the best mirror.”

The Silence again. I could feel the mind battle. Then she sighed.

“I married at sixteen,” she began.

Sixteen? (Child abuse, I muttered). The age were girls still tie ribbons and worry about report cards. The age when love is still something you read on “Mills & Boon” or watch in African Magic.

“He came from abroad,” she said. “American accent. Clean notes. A car that smelled like heaven itself. When he arrived in our village, he did not just propose. He performed. He completed my father’s unfinished house. Fenced it. Furnished it. Paid my school fees. And promised I would finish my education before relocation”, she recited in sequence.

“My parents looked at me like I was the chosen one,” she said quietly. “Like favour had finally remembered our address and I was the GPS.” I didn’t exactly want it. I didn’t think I was ready but in small towns like ours, wealth is louder than wisdom. Refusal would have been rebellion. And rebellion is expensive for young girls my age.

“Did you love him?” I asked gently.

“I was made to love what he represented for my family,” she replied. “Escape from poverty”

And moreover, it was easy to like him. He was way out of my league, respectful, almost too respectful. He said the right things and did the right things. Even when my mother pushed me at him and whispered, “You are married now, don’t push him away,” he barely touched her. He said he wanted me to be ready, and I was happy.

“But at the back of my mind,” she said, “I felt something missing, something was off. But who questions a miracle? Everyone believe he was our miracle so……”

(My grandma’s voice hit me; When a gift is too perfect, inspect the wrapping twice).

By eighteen, I moved to Lagos with him when he came back again. A luxury flat in Lekki. Fine furniture. Fine curtains, But fine loneliness. Mind you, there was no wedding, only traditional marriage and no matter how much I wanted it, he kept sliding it off.

“He was always ‘on site.’ Always busy. But generous. He bought things for me and my family. That alone silenced any protest or flag I would have raised.” I started justifying the red flags I saw and felt. I judged distance for discipline. Mistook absence for hard work, and our lack of closeness for self-control.

Then came the hospital visits.

“He said he wanted to make sure I was ready. That he didn’t want our first time to be painful.” How tender it sounded. How strategic it was.

Doctors whispered words like “compatible” and “transfer.” I didn’t understand. I only understood that I was okay and approved. For what? Did I need a doctor’s approval to be with my husband? But he was more matured, well travelled, more educated and I was just a learner.

Few weeks later, he took me back to the hospital. There was a quick procedure. Few minutes. I was perplexed. “They said it would make intimacy easier, since I was new to the game.” Since when did anyone need a procedure to have sex? I was inexperienced, yes, but I watch films and I read novels. I knew something was off, but I didn’t know what.

She laughed bitterly into the phone.

“I had no idea I was the proverbial “Fatted Cow”. Those check-ups were not preparing me for my husband. They were preparing me for implantation. A healthy womb that will carry their abnormal plan”

She paused. I could hear a break in her voice. She was struggling to contain herself.

“What Plan?” I whispered almost afraid to know.

“The plan to use me as an incubator…….” her voice broke again.

I held my breathe. Afraid of making a sound but my spirit was boiling over. What did she just say? Father Lord……

“I don’t understand, why would he want to have an incubated child with someone else when he had a healthy willing wife?” I was struggling to process this.

“That’s the real miracle. The man was very legally and happily married. I didn’t know. I was not a bride. I was an inventory. They couldn’t have a child for some reasons. So, the plan was to get a young and naive pretend-bride and secretly implant their already fertilised embryo into my womb. Her Egg and His Sperm. Nothing of mine was incubating there”

The silence after that statement was a long torture for me. I was staring at my system and watching emails drop without actually seeing anything. My heart felt hollow and my breathing was heavy.

“Hello?” she said.

I cleared my throat, trying hard to snap out of my shock. How? Lord, how?

“A few months later, I became horribly sick. My body felt like a thousand demons had possessed it. Nothing will stay in. Nothing. Again, to the hospital we went and my pregnancy was confirmed.”

Everyone was ecstatic except me. Since when did I become another Virgin Mary? He barely touched me so how could I have been pregnant but then again, they said that once was enough, so I agreed and joined in the joy despite the sicknesses and constant visits to the hospital.

“My mother had been asking questions every month. I didn’t know how to explain why he barely touched me. So, when they said I was pregnant from ‘once,’ I called it a miracle.” And moved on. So many strange miracles in that marriage”, she laughed randomly.

I stared into the phone trying to untangle this web of a story. What is it with people that package your ruin as a gift and present it to you in broad daylight? Now, tell me Lord, what exactly did this girl do to be chosen for this manipulation? She thought she was chosen, she was a carrier of Grace. You will think that her innocence will save her. But when trouble wants you……hmmm.

I once met a woman who told me that “God Forbid” for her daughter to go into marriage as a virgin. I was shocked out of my skull. Something we mothers pray about and pride ourselves about…But no, she told me with emphasis that she would ensure that her daughter will be well equipped to face life and will not be anybody’s “douche bag….”

I thought that was extreme reaction to whatever baggage she carried on her but this…? This, Lord, is weird.

Hmmm, as mothers, may we be reminded to teach our daughters that favour without clarity is not blessing, it is a bait. How many girls are celebrating miracles that are actually traps?

Wisdom is profitable ONLY when it directs.

This is your daughter Lord, I am still processing all of this and holding my comments for the story to fully unfold. I am just checking in.