Can we try again?

Ten

Samira

The remaining three weeks left to the end of term whizzed by in a blur. On a different occasion, I would have been absolutely thrilled, but this time was different, because with each passing day, it meant I was closer to admitting to my family what an embarrassment I was.

After my failed attempt that afternoon with Buchi, I pretty much decided I wouldn't worry too much about it. But it was hard when everything around me suddenly became a reminder of my soon to be motherhood. I would enter into a shop and catch a glimpse of tins of SMA gold or cartons of pampers and instantly be transported into the nearest future where I was using them.

I tried, but failed to push the thought of becoming a parent aside and focus on my last exam for the term. Who was I kidding? I couldn't escape from it. I would look at my naked body in the mirror, rubbing my belly, wondering when it would begin to bulge out. When would people start noticing? When would the fatigue and morning sickness fully kick in – although the later was already happening?

Most nights I sob silently, wishing I could go back to that night, and act differently. Then this wouldn't have happened. I wouldn't have ended up in this miserable state. Everyday I would curse myself for being a fool and falling into that trap. Just that one night and that one mistake, that's what is changing my life. If only . . . 

My routine continued as usual. No one suspected anything – of course, I didn't expect them to, just yet. Although some of my course mates did ask me a couple of times if I was alright when they saw me dozing off whilst lectures were going on. They said I was really quiet, which is not my usual self. I told them, I was just ill and they seemed to have bought it.

After lectures each day, I would go back to my flat and take a nap – if I was alone, that is. Oma, on the days she got back home before me, would prepare one of her delicacies; some goat meat pepper soup, which she made so spicy that it I always end up with teary eyes and a runny nose. Afterwards, she'd coerce me to go out for a stroll with her, saying it's good that I do some exercise. Despite my protests, I always cave in and we end up having a good laugh, sharing gossips between ourselves – because that's what best friends do, chitchat about other people to each other.

Oma kept to her word when she promised to be by my side; I didn't expect anything different from her though. She's been my best friend for years now, so when she said she wouldn't let me go through this on my own, I believed her. She's been really helpful, ensuring that I'm well looked after, and that I haven't missed a meal or I'm not working myself up. I have to say, I like all the attention I get from her – but maybe I would enjoy it a lot more under different circumstances.

On the days when my hormones would kick in and I would break down, and cry, Oma would throw her arms around me and console me. It has been manageable so far, with my best friend by my side. All the while, the reality of the situation hadn't fully kicked in, not in here, in the four walls of our apartment and my yet flat tummy. I hadn't realized the enormity of the mess I was in.

Until now.

One more day left till I go back home for the holidays.

As I sat alone in the living room staring blankly at the television, I pondered upon what my family would say when I told them. I could picture in my head, my dad – who is not one to say a thousand words – tutting and shaking his head in disappointment. My mum would wail loudly, her hands on her head, like it's the end of the world. "This girl has finished me o," she probably would moan. Her mouth would rain insults on me, her eyes flickering around to find something she would hit me with. They maybe would threaten to send me out of their house.

And how about my peers? I would become the topic of discussion for them, both boys and girls. The girls I know who are no where near innocent, who will sleep with different boys each day, would be the ones to carry my matter on their head and judge me, like they are guilty of no sins. But no one would see that, especially when I'm the one carrying the result of my actions. I'm the one that's pregnant.

I chewed my fingernails, my stomach churning in anxiety as I thought about this. I really didn't want to go home. I couldn't face my parents at home. I just couldn't.

I weighed my options.

I could stay here in school and tell them we have some project and are not allowed to leave. But for how long would I keep that for? 9 months? I don't think so. Also, most people would have gone home for holiday and I wouldn't like to be the only one hanging around.

Or what if I told them I was going to stay at Oma's? Sounded like a good idea. However, I knew that somehow, Oma's mum would find out about me being pregnant, and the news would get back to my mum. And it didn't seem right that I don't go to my house for the break and I would rather spend it at Oma's. My mum would definitely question that, especially when we only lived 20 minutes away from each other.

I had one last option. I could fake my death. Disappear for 9 months, have the baby, find him or her a home and miraculously return home afterwards. I couldn't help but giggle at the absurdity of the idea.

That was when I realized I had nothing else. I would just have to come clean. I had no choice.

I bit my lips at the tears that threatened to leave my eyes. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn't. One small drop escaped from my left eye. I felt its warmth, sliding down and rolling off my cheeks. I quickly wiped it off.

No. I wouldn't cry. It would be fine. I would be fine. I would manage. Face your parents, despite what, ignore everyone else' comments, a little voice in my head told me.

I took a deep breath, fighting off the brewing tears. But as soon as I wiped my face, another tear rolled down, then another, until my eyes were flooded with them. That was when I gave up and I let them fall.

A knock from the door suddenly made me jerk up from the chair. I wondered who it could be. I wasn't expecting anyone and I knew it couldn't be Oma because she had her own set of keys. I stared at the door and waited for a couple of seconds.

No sound. So I turned my head and as soon as I did that, the knock came again.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt and sat up, but I didn't move. Whoever it was, I didn't want to see them. I wasn't in the mood to speak with anyone. I waited, hoping that whoever it was would get tired of knocking and leave. But I was wrong, the tapping on the door continued. I wiped my face again and stood up. I grudgingly turned the key and opened the door. I couldn't believe my eyes as I saw the person standing at the door.