Chapter 2: Crumbling Trust

I held those two crumpled papers, my head spinning.

My palms sweated so much, the papers almost slip from my grip. I sat on the edge of the bed, legs weak. The ceiling fan above whirred lazily, mocking me with its slow, steady rhythm. I felt as if someone just dey drum for my head.

A child? Miscarriage?

Even to say the words inside my mind na wahala. Belle? Miscarriage? For my own wife?

My first thought: No way.

I shook my head, as if I fit scatter the thought from my brain. No way. Impossible.

My wife, Morayo, and I have been married for seven years. We’ve always wanted a child, but Morayo is serious about her career. She always says she still has a long way to go at work.

I remember how her eyes dey shine when she talk about promotion and targets, how her phone dey beep non-stop, even for night. We go sit together for veranda, but her mind dey office.

If she gets pregnant now, her career fit go pause. So we agreed: no children until she clocks thirty-five and locks down her position in the company.

We shook hands on am, even laugh about it, say na modern couple we be. Morayo go always say, 'No child until I reach the top,' and I go nod, acting like say I no mind.

I understood. For women, work no easy at all. If pregnancy and breastfeeding slow her down, all her hustle go waste.

Sometimes I go watch her press laptop till 2am, her eyes red but her spirit dey strong. Even her mum dey complain, 'This your work sef, na pikin go fit calm you down.' I always defend her.

So, even though both families dey pressure us for children, I took it upon myself. I told both parents my sperm no strong, so getting a child go hard. Dem gossip for compound, but I gree bear am. Na peace I dey find.

I remember how my father-in-law rub his chin and my own mother shake head, but I no gree change story. For peace to reign, na me collect the blame.

Since we weren’t ready for kids, I always made sure to use protection anytime we had sex. I feared Morayo go mistakenly get belle and everything she worked for go scatter.

I dey keep condoms everywhere—wallet, glove box, even for bathroom drawer. If e burst, I go panic until she see her period. I dey cautious pass person wey dey handle bomb.

So I’m sure: she no fit get pregnant for me.

I dey talk am with my chest. For seven years, nothing. No scare, no wahala.

Then why did I find a prenatal check-up slip and a discharge summary in her suitcase? Wasn’t she on business trip all this while?

My heart start to beat fast. My mind dey run kata kata, but my body dey stiff like wood. I begin dey remember every lie, every travel, every small thing wey no add up.

No time to overthink. With shaky hands, I dialled Morayo.

My thumb dey sweat as I press her number. The ringing loud for my ear, as if the whole street fit hear am.

As usual, she didn’t answer. Instead, after the call cut, she sent me one dry question mark: “?”

I almost fling phone for wall. Which kain wahala be this? That question mark vex me. No greeting, no 'hello', just '?'. Like say I dey disturb her, not her own husband. My anger rise, but another part of me just tire.

Seeing that question mark just cool my temper, like person pour cold water for my body.

I drop phone, breathing deep. All my anger begin turn to confusion. I start to doubt myself—maybe I dey overreact.

No, first I need to confirm if the prenatal check-up slip and discharge summary are real.

I dey look the paper for light, inspecting hospital logo and stamp like police officer. Everything dey legit. But e still dey do me like film trick.

Even though it’s unlikely that Morayo would forge hospital papers for nothing, what if?

I dey try console myself. Maybe na mistake, maybe na her friend own. I dey reason all angle, just dey deceive myself.

I still dey hope say e fit be mistake.

My mind dey beg for small hope. Maybe I fit wake up from this kind bad dream.

So I searched for the Women and Children’s Hospital contact in Ibadan and called them.

My hand shake as I dey press their number. I no even know if I want make them confirm am. My mouth dry as I wait for person to pick.

They confirmed it: Morayo was discharged from their hospital a week ago. Reason? Abortion. The pregnancy was already three months old.

As I hear the nurse read Morayo’s name and the diagnosis, my ear buzz. I for no believe if no be say na stranger dey talk am, not even Morayo.

My mind blanked. I can’t even remember how I dropped the call.

Na so I dey look my hand, phone still dey my palm. My head empty, no single thought. All I hear na my own breathing.

“Did you call for something?”

Her WhatsApp message blink for my phone. I stare at the screen, her words cold like harmattan wind. No pet name, just dry message.

Maybe because I didn’t reply for long, she sent another message, sounding cautious.

This second message dey somehow—like person wey dey fear wetin you don discover.

I know Morayo too well. For the past two years, she’s been cold to me. No matter how I try to please her, even when I shout in frustration, she hardly reacts. She never calls me first, and whether she picks up depends on her mood.

Sometimes I go dey talk, she go just dey scroll her phone, acting as if I be background noise. My friends dey tease me, say I don turn houseboy, but na love keep me there.

If Morayo had a clear conscience, she for just ignore my call, not send follow-up message.

Na true. If nothing dey worry her, she go bone. But now she dey try monitor my reaction.

I snapped pictures of the check-up slip and discharge summary as evidence, then put them back exactly where I found them inside her clothes.

I dey careful not to shift anything, so she no go suspect. I wipe my sweat, arrange everything back, and pray make she no notice.

Then I replied: “Nothing, just wanted to ask which of your clothes from the trip need washing.”

My heart dey beat anyhow as I send the message. I dey try act normal, as if nothing dey happen.

Morayo replied sharp sharp: “Don’t touch my suitcase. I’ll handle it myself when I get back.”

The speed of her reply shock me. The way she talk—no space for argument. I read the message again, her words dey sharp like razor.

Looking at her reply, my heart just freeze.

I drop phone, stare at the ceiling. Na so marriage dey end? After all my sacrifice?