(By Oluwatoyin Ikuomola)
Continued from part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven
“Emeka is dead”, she emphasized for utmost clarity.
I froze, staring at her in disbelief.
“How did you do it?”
“Poison. I watched as he begged for his life. He was weak and pathetic. I hated him and even more his seed that I am carrying.”
She sat beside me and examined my scars. She wept bitterly. She was sorry, but she knew that sorry wasn’t going to be enough.
“It’s not alive”, she said.
“What’s not alive?”
“The child died two days ago, and it was impossible for it to be removed. They tried all they could, but to no avail. The dead child has refused to come out. So just as you said Onyeka, the bastard hates me and wants me dead.”
I looked at her swollen tummy and I cried for her; I finally cried with my sister. I held her close and told her she wouldn’t go alone.
I promised to go with her.
That night, we lay in bed together, recounting the good old days when we were young and happy; before life robbed us of all our innocence.
“Onyeka, what will you miss most?” she asked.
“The calm and newness after the rain.”
“Me too”, she said.
I would miss the peace, the serenity, the sudden calm after the heavy roaring of the thunder, raging of the lightning and the mighty downpour of the rain. I would miss the rains.
But as the blood dripped from our wrists that night, a new kind of peace began to dawn on me.
“I will miss Chike” she said.
“Chike. I will miss Chike as well. He will never forgive us, but someday, I hope he will understand.”
And with that, I kissed my sister goodbye and set to concentrate on the new feeling that was overtaking my body.
Tranquil.
