Chapter 1: Papers in the Bag

Packing my wife’s bag for her two-week business trip, I jammed my hand into a side pocket and pulled out a prenatal check-up slip and a rumpled hospital discharge paper.

My hand shook as I pulled the papers out, my breath short, the nylon bag rustling loud in the silent room. The house felt suddenly too quiet, as if all the walls leaned in to watch me. I whispered, 'Jesu!' under my breath, shock hold me like harmattan breeze.

Both documents clearly showed my wife had spent seven days in the hospital because of a miscarriage.

I squinted at the faded ink. The hospital logo glare at me, stubborn as the Ibadan sun at noon. My name no dey there, but Morayo’s name sit down boldly, like signboard for junction—clear, no confusion. Admission and discharge dates. The word 'miscarriage' na im pain me pass—heavy like stone for my chest.

But God knows, I always use protection.

Na so my mind begin dey race. God in heaven, na which kind wahala be this? I tight everywhere, no room for mistake, so how e come happen?