Title: I Need A Child
Author: Enam Yaa Noeki
Words: 1167
Status: Complete

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Olamide and I married in 2004.

The next step involved a baby. A year passed, then two and more. Seven years later, I still couldn't give him a child.

"How can you call yourself a woman if you cannot have a child?" his mother told me one day, swaddling the newborn baby his first lover gave birth to on my trip overseas.

The child's cries were venom in my ears, but I said nothing - I could do nothing. If I had given Olamide a child, he would stay at home and not sleep with women outside. It did not matter that I cooked, cleaned or did whatever else a dutiful wife did. A baby sealed every marriage, and marriage without one fell apart.

"You know I love you so much," Olamide said this to his newest catch - a shapely dark-skinned Biola, who was ten years younger than I with wide brown eyes and a slow smile. Though she greeted me each time we met, I had enough experience to know first glance that my husband had already slept with her. "After a few months, I will divorce that woman and we can be together."

"Are you sure?" Biola asked Olamide. "What if she finds out about the baby?"

I removed my red heels before I stepped into the house. I could open and close the door without making a sound. The master bedroom upstairs wasn't too far.

"That barren woman cannot do anything. She is not like you." My dear husband said. "I will deal with her. Just focus on our son."

I cooked in the kitchen while Biola quietly slipped out. I never bothered confronting the women he dealt with. They would sometimes watch and stare. Barren women were like strange animals in a zoo. Olamide never said a word about Biola, but he walked around with a strong set in his shoulders just as a soldier would for war.

I ate at the same table as he did. I cleaned after him. I rested by his side.

---

"Good morning, Mrs. Sijuwade."

In the early mornings, I never see a neighbor outside when I leave for work. All except for Mr. Thompson, who mispronounced my last name each time he said it.

"Good morning, Mr. Thompson," I said with a smile. I knew I perfected the American accent when he put on a big smile.

"I said it wrong again, didn't I?"

I stop before getting in my red car. "No. You said it just as any American would say it. How is your day going so far?"

Mr. Thompson looked like a weight lifted off his shoulders. Word said that he had been a soldier during the Iraq War and worked at Union as a contractor.

The one thing I always remembered when it came to him is his slightly bent nose, which tilted his smile. His eyes were dark, and he had a white smile that melted every woman he met. His Southern drawl from his upbringing in New Orleans flowed like a sad song. The tattoo on his arm reminded me of my mother's indignant shouts when I wanted a tattoo myself as a teen.

"It's wonderful," he said. "How about you?"

"Great,"

You cannot tell anyone about your hardships in America, because there is nothing they can do for you. People withdraw themselves each time you grieve.
Mr. Thompson reminded me that I had to continue pretending, to step out into the world each day and look him in the eye to tell him I had a perfect life. I had the house, the car, the doctor/husband and I had much to brag when it came to my career. I had two vacation homes - one in Lome, Togo and the other in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. My life was a happy song. It was glorious and everyone wished they had it.

---

It was a happy song only during the day time.

"Where are my shoes?" Olamide asked while he searched his closet in the evening.

"In the-"

"Are you deaf? Answer me!"

When I called my mother on the phone to tell her about Biola, she told me this would happen. My husband would start to make things difficult for me. I did not need her words to know.

"He will treat you as though you are nothing," my mother said. "That girl will feel like she already has one foot inside your house. Don't let her try her luck. That house is under both you and your husband's name. If you want to sit there and let him toss you around, he will destroy you."

My mother's words never failed me, but while Olamide and I delved into another thunderous argument, he used the same words that never failed to cut the old wounds deep in the pit of my belly.

"You call yourself a woman? Show me. Give me a child, and then I will call you a woman!"

Biola returned the next night. This time, Olamide never hid her. I saw her and she saw me. Her wide beautiful eyes darted between us, but she followed him to the master bedroom. I heard their sweet murmurs. I heard their love bloom for their unborn son.

"How could you allow that girl inside?" my mother asked the next morning on the phone.

Olamide left for work earlier and Biola remained trapped in our master bedroom. I had no energy left. "I am tired, mama."

"Tired? You just let that girl inside, like the fool you are! Fight for your home! Drag her out!"

My mother's shrill voice forced me into action. I was about to climb those steps to my bedroom until I heard a knock on the door.

I should have never bothered to answer the door, but I did and saw Mr. Thompson. He held a bouquet of red roses, all tightly bound in his hands.

"I have a garden in the back," he said. "A fresh set. I wanted to show you how big they've grown."

My body fluttered down from my mother's imposed rage. "That's nice, Mr. Thompson but-"

"How about you give me a vase? I'll show you how to take care of these."

My mother's voice echoed in the back of my mind. But the more Mr. Thompson looked at me, the more my skin cooled.

I let him inside the house.

He taught me how to tend the roses. I knew he saw through my saddened gaze. He spent longer than he should, he made suggestions for me to use a soothing hand in caring for the roses.

He spent forty minutes with me, and I stood as the ever silent, obedient student I used to be. I no longer imagined Biola on my bed, but the red roses Mr. Thompson left me.

The girl left the house on her own. I did not respond when she greeted me.

I simply sat by Mr. Thompson's roses and sipped a cup of hot tea.

---

Notes: Thanks for reading! This is longer, so next time I will shorten my stories to make the reading experience quick.

You really try, thanks for the story so far. But don't abandon the story mid-way.

@duruZed Thank you so much for replying and for your comment. This is a short story so it's complete.

Nice storyline.
Keep it up!

@KelvinCoaster Thank you!

noekie:
@KelvinCoaster Thank you!

You're welcome!