Right above, I have decided to include an audio narration of the story. I hope you enjoy the listening experience, however you choose to consume it.
“Mummy, are you sure you're okay?” Banke, her twenty year-old last-born daughter asked her as she peered further into the screen, her forehead wrinkled in concern.
Remi Ajibade’s smile was full of unease, even as she tried to reassure her daughter for the nth time that she was fine. She couldn't say that she was being completely sincere but at this point, she didn't even know how to categorize the tangled yarn of emotions swirling in her gut. “EniObanke, all is well.”
She tilted the phone screen such that the camera would show Banke where she was seated on the toilet seat. “Ew Mummy, you're pooping! You could have just said so instead of showing me nau.”
In spite of herself, a weak chuckle escaped her. Trust Banke to always bring in the theatrics. “When I was telling you that I'm okay but you were being a doubting Thomas nko, I had to show you so you’d believe me. Cause small thing now, you'll have gone to tell Funmibi and Bukunmi and next thing, you people have called family meeting on my head. And baba yin too will be encouraging you by tattling about every small thing.” Oluwafunmibi and Oluwabukunmi were her two older daughters, aged twenty-six and twenty-four respectively.
She loved her children to bits even as they often conspired with their father against her. They were all unapologetic daddy’s girls although they tried to keep her in the loop every now and then.
Drawing her waning attention, Banke rolled her eyes as she snorted in a very unladylike manner. “You love us like that joor. Is it not because we care for you that we're always on your matter ehn. That reminds me sef, what about your husband?”
Remi’s mind wandered to Kunle, her husband as her heart galloped wildly like a racehorse on its way to the finish line. Abba please, I'm begging you. Please don’t let this actually happen. You know that I didn’t ask for this. Please, I didn’t ask for this! “Oh, he's actually at the gym. He should be back soon.”
“That's true o. It's because you didn't follow him today that I forgot about the timing. Oya, let me leave you to continue your pooping in peace. Take care of yourself o, I love youuu.” She smacked her lips into a silly-looking pout.
“I love you too my baby girl. I'll call you later. Make sure you tell your sisters that I'm fine, and that you people should stop listening to your worrywart of a father. And face your book too, you hear me? That B.Sc won’t bag itself o.”
Banke’s loud chuckle, which had the ability to make her feel better on any given day, this time failed to bring with it its usual warmth and her heart sunk even more. This possibility, even if it was supposed to be a quarter of a half in a million chance of happening, had the singular capacity to upend their relatively stress-free, peaceful lives. “Yes ma, I've heard you,” she replied, giving her a mock salute. “Bye nowwww.”
“Bye.” Remi clicked the button to hang up the call and sighed in trepidation of what was ahead. The little stick-like object stared accusingly at her from its place on the toilet sink and in response, all she wanted to do was to scream out the anxiety that had built up on her inside.
I’m too old for this kind of emotional rollercoaster, she thought to herself. She could bet that her blood pressure had risen in ways that it had not done since her youthful, thrill-seeking days. She didn't want a return to those times; all she just wanted was to keep her head down, get through the rest of the menopausal window, age like fine wine and continue to hassle her grown daughters for grandbabies. She was sure that she wasn't asking for too much. It was what all women on the threshold of joining the ‘sweet grandmas’ club aspired to and ended up getting. So why was her own case trying to be different?
Take a deep breath Remi. Everything's going to be just fine, the Spirit of God whispered whispered to her troubled soul. In an attempt to follow His counsel, she drew deep breaths from within, coming out with the confidence she needed to find out the crucial answer. I'm probably just overreacting.
On that note, she took the metaphorical bull by the horn and boldly picked up the test stick, never mind that it was soaked in her own urine. Situated plainly on the micro screen, the small but clearly ascertainable plus sign jumped out at her, its impact hitting her with the weight of a dirty slap across the face.
The ringing in her ears seemed to start all at once, with her eardrums suffering the onslaught of a chaotic blend of multiple orchestras. This can't be happening. It has to be a mistake! These were the thoughts playing on repeat in her mind as she paced the length and breadth of the piano-themed bathroom. Calm down Remi, she thought to herself. She knew from experience that these home kits were sometimes inaccurate and she was banking on this situation being one of those times; because with what mouth would she announce to everyone that she, a woman of a whooping fifty-four years of age was pregnant?
She needed to get herself together and figure out where to go from here. To put her fears to bed completely, she would need to do a proper laboratory test. But she couldn’t do it at their family hospital because she didn’t want to rile anyone up for nothing. This whole episode could probably be linked to something to do with menopause, even though all her symptoms felt frighteningly similar to her previous pregnancies. She had heard that it had the tendency to be tricky like that and she prayed that this turned out to be the case for her.
“Iyawo mi, are you okay in there?” Kunle’s voice wafted to her hearing as his knock on the door resounded.
“Kunle!” her too-high-pitched voice called in return. “You’re back already.”
“Well yeah. I was at the gym for over two-and-half hours and when I was going I left you in that bathroom, only to come back to see that you’re still there. And you did not answer my question o,” he reminded his wife, his voice dripping of suspicion. Kunle smelt a rat and he did not like it one bit. Remi had been acting off for the past few days and while he at first opted to give her space to deal with whatever it was on her own, he now felt that it was time for him to step in.
“Erm…” she trailed off. “I just need a little more time, I’ll soon be out.”
“You know what, I’m coming in,” he announced a split second before he turned the doorknob and stepped inside to a most interesting sight. In fact, it was one that he hadn’t seen for a very long time.
Update: You can continue the story here
MO’s Behind-The-Scene Note
Ouuu cliffhanger! Or something like that sha? Anywho, hello boys and girls! I hope everyone’s greatt. This has to be the first work of fiction that I’m actually properly writing this year, and as I type this, I realize how long it has truly been. It feels really good to flex those fiction-writing muscles, like reallyyy good😽
Can we all agree that Remi’s story isn’t finished yet? Yup, I see a part 2 in the nearest future (more information on that later). I’d love to know your predictions though. Is she actually pregnant or is it just a scare? Tap the button right below to tell me all about it:
I got the inspiration to write this short story from a reel on Instagram and like play like play, I got all excited and started to pen down something. Nearing the end of the story, my excitement started to wane and then I got hyper-critical of all what I’d written. Thoughts like ‘this isn’t descriptive enough’ or ‘this doesn’t make any sense’ or ‘why were you so excited about this trash’ or ‘such a good idea and look at your poor execution’, to name a few. Point is, it almost sucked out all the joy that I originally got out of creating this piece. If you’re on my contact list on WhatsApp, you would have seen the status update where I touched on what happened a little.
As I type this, I still don’t feel nearly as joyful or confident as I was at the beginning, but I’m learning to keep going regardless of what I feel. I understand that there may be a number of imperfections, but isn’t that what makes it art? Its imperfections draw out its authenticity; and so, try as I may to rewrite and edit a gazillion times, I could never take away what makes it authentic. Instead, I keep opening up more dimensions to its nature. And this knowledge grants me peace, which is why you were able to view this story in spite of my internal struggle.
So there you have all the BTS tea, spilled as it’s hot. If you’re new here, see the button below.
That’s all for now folks, I shall see you in the next post. Before then, you can catch me hanging around in the comments. Oh, and make sure to like this post before clicking off. Many thanks.
Warm hugs and chocolate kizzeez,
Mofeoluwa
I would have bet Chimamanda wrote this piece if it were not for the yoruba settings! Such captivating work that I see efficiency, talent and a dint of proper grammatical construction. Weldone
The art of writing is truly a gift that has clearly been bestowed upon you. From the professionalism to the relatabilty of this art, you truly have shown me that only the blessed can be great writers.