Who would have ever thought that the darling, caring, and loving husband could ever become a pain in the buttocks, and a terrifying beast overnight?
Munachi, for short, Muna, faces so much assaults, and domestic violence from the hands of the man s...
Tears wells up into my eyes and I press my fingers against them. In spite of my resolution to be stoical about my misfortune, I can't help being wet-eye whenever I want to talk about it. The tears refuses to be kept in, so I dab my eyes again and again with my handkerchief. Currently I say with tears in my voice:
"I want a baby, doctor."
Dr. Mark, a quite handsome man perhaps in his early thirties, looks at me sympathetically. My slim figure, sitting in front of his desk pile up with books and files, wearing a black flare dress against my smooth, caramel skin. And my good crop of coal-black hair, let loose in an afro.
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"You're only thirty-one," he says, studying my face. "There's still enough time for you to have all the babies you want. Please cheer up."
"Enough time doctor? Is it when I clock the age of — the age of —" I stop, due to the choking lump in my throat.
"To be frank, I understand," Dr. Mark kindly says. "But believe me you still have a whole lot of time. Now let me ask you, have you ever had any miscarriages in the past?"
"None doctor."
"Abortions?"
"Not at all," I shake my head. "I've been to several doctors in the past. I've had so many kinds of tests. Underwent different kinds of treatments, but all have been in vain. You're my only last hope, doctor."
"I'll do my very best, Mrs. Munachi," he says. "I'll prescribe you some medicines in which you will collect at the dispensary. I'd like you to have some tests and X-rays as well. So, in that case you'll have to come back next week for the results. Hopefully they'll be ready by then."
After taking the tests and X-rays, I thank Dr. Mark before walking out of his office. Outside the building, I look at my watch. A little three past noon. Then, I decide to do some shopping before heading back home. Since I resigned my job as a nurse in a teaching hospital, I've been doing most of the family's shopping although I have a reliable housegirl, not very clever, however faithful who will do it without cheating me. As I drive away from the clinic, my hopes rises and I pray inwardly to God in granting my wish.
Doris, my housegirl, sees me arriving home and runs to open the front door. "Welcome home, Mistress," she says, as she helps me bring out the groceries from the car. Doris is about twenty years, and looks small for her age. Her high intelligence, however, makes up for what she lacks in stature.
"Are the ingredients for soup prepared, Doris?" I ask.
"Yes, Mistress." She's walking ahead of me, laden with two polythene bags.
"Put those groceries away in the pantry, Doris," I inform, as we come into the living room. "I'll have the soup prepared in a few minutes' time."
"Yes, Mistress."
I kick off my shoes and fling myself onto the sofa. I'm envelope with a sudden depression. My mind wanders back to the clinic. To Dr. Mark's words to me. "I'll do my very best, Mrs. Munachi." Then I wonder if he will succeed where others had failed. A few minutes on, I walk into the kitchen to prepare the soup for dinner.
I take a small silver spoon and scoop a little quantity of soup on the fire for a taste. "Hmm," I hum to myself. "Bring the vegetables, Doris," I say.
She hands over to me a plate of washed and shredded veggies. I put the veggies into the soup-pot, stir with a spoon, and then put in some washed fresh fish. I stir the soup one last time, put on the lid, then move to the kitchen sink to rinse my hands.
"Watch the soup, Doris," I instruct, drying my hands with a dishtowel. "Don't let it get burnt. It should boil for another fifteen minutes or so before it's done. Then I want you to boil some water for semolina. (a starchy meal prepared by using hot water)"
By ten o'clock in the evening, I'm sitting in the living room waiting for Nathaniel, my husband, to return home for dinner.
"You're home late, Nate," I say, as he walks into the room.
"I'm sorry." He sits on the sofa unlacing his shoes. "Too much traffic."
I rise, taking his briefcase into the bedroom. A few minutes on, we sit down to dinner.
"Did you see the doctor today?" Nate asks, taking a large helping of semolina.
I stop eating for a second, looking so sullen. "I was made to take some tests and X-rays. Again. But why do they always send me for tests and then nothing happens afterwards."
"Cheer up, Muna." He tries to console me. "Don't look so crestfallen. It's hard on you, I know that. It's hard on me as well."
"I've failed you, Nate," I say. "I've completely failed you and I know that." There are tears in my voice.
"Nonsense!" he barks. "You haven't failed me. I haven't lost hope. And I'm never going to lose hope. Don't be too hard on yourself, dear. We will have our kids someday."
Nate has been a very good husband to me: kind, generous, understanding, and loving. He is a tall, handsome man. His ebony-black skin is as smooth and as translucent as an infant's. He's the Chief Executive Director of his own oil and gas company. To me, Nate's only fault so far, is his inability to make his own decisions when it comes to his mother. Nate and I are so close. Closer than anything one could ever imagine. We tell each other everything. We keep no secrets.
A brooding silence falls between us as we continue to eat. I know Nate sometimes worries about our plight as well, but being the man he is, he always tries to hide his own anxiety if only to make me take our misfortune lightly. By eleven o'clock we're already in bed, with me lying next to Nate who has already fallen asleep. My mind wanders for nearly two hours before I'm eventually able to get some sleep.
