Chapter 2: Gboko Roots, Makurdi Dreams

Me and my husband, Musa and I, both come from one small town, way down the pecking order.

Our town, Gboko, na place wey dust dey cover road, and morning dey start with the crow of cock and mama Ede's shouting for her stubborn pikin. You go wake for morning, dust go full your slippers, and the smell of burning firewood go greet your nose. People sabi each other down to the third cousin, and everybody dey hustle to escape. No be say the town bad, but opportunity scarce like gold for sand.

We’re products of those typical small-town families where the only way out is to read book, pass exam. We struggled, sweated, and finally passed WAEC and JAMB—each of us got a bachelor’s degree from one of the top universities in Nigeria and a master’s from another top school. Those are the best schools in the country.

Our parents carry us for head like new yam, sending their last kobo for lesson and handout, praying for us with red candle every Sunday. Even when NEPA take light, we go read with lantern till cock crow. By the time we pass those exams, they throw party for street, kill chicken, and pour libation for ancestors.

After school, we both entered government work. We started from the bottom, step by step, until we finally made it in the state capital—Makurdi—a place where we had no family or connection.

Makurdi, that city where river Benue flows lazy and hot, and new people dey look you like stranger until you prove yourself. We rented one room for Wadata, shared toilet with twelve people, and counted coins to buy okra for soup. But we held each other, whispering hope when the city’s wahala dey too much.

Now, both of us are department heads, respected in our own circles, with cars and houses. Our housing allowance even covers our mortgage.

Neighbours now greet us with two hands, and our compound gateman, Mallam Abdullahi, dey call us "oga madam" and "oga sir". We host our families for Christmas, buy Ankara for village women, and send small change to our younger siblings.

In short, we made it the traditional way—by merit, with no shortcuts. By Nigerian standards, we jumped social class in the most mainstream way.

My mother always says, "Person no fit bend firewood after e don dry," but we managed to straighten our own path before life harden us. Even relatives that once called us "village rat" now dey call us for advice and help.

This year, Musa and I celebrated two big things.

First, early in the year, he got promoted to a leadership role at a government parastatal. His pay and benefits jumped up several times.

People from home dey hail am, call am for every naming ceremony, and his phone dey ring tire with congratulations. Even our pastor for Winners Chapel prayed for am specially.

The other thing: I got pregnant.

Yes, after six years of marriage, I finally got pregnant.

Neighbours noticed my new glow, and aunties started sending me messages about which herbs to drink and which prayers to say. The news spread like fire for dry harmattan grass.

Musa is the only son in three generations, and his family has a history of low sperm count—so after thirty, the chance to have a child is almost zero. The struggle to get pregnant was just as hard as our hustle to get ahead.

His mother, Mama Musa, even do fasting for seven days, calling me every night to ask if I dey "see sign." Each negative test, I go hide for bathroom, crying quietly, telling God make He no shame me.

Luckily, two months ago, in the first harmattan after Musa turned thirty, I finally became pregnant.

The wind that morning carried dust but also hope, as I stared at the two red lines, my hand shaking like NEPA pole. I knelt by the window, thanking God with tears.

When the test results came out, Musa—who never really shows his feelings—hugged me tight. He kneel down, head press my belly, whispering "Thank You, Baba God," like say prayer fit hold the baby inside. He was so happy, he cried like a small pikin.

His tears soak my blouse, and for the first time, I see the weight of expectation melt from his shoulders. We knelt together, praying, his head bowed on my belly.