I gaze at her, cradled in my arms, and silently weep. She is so little, so innocent and clueless with no idea how cruel the world is. But I do, and the details of that day remain etched in my memory.
The apartment feels so lonely, and not even the brightness of the nursery can drown out the darkness I feel choking me. It is my wedding anniversary today and I have silence for company. I lay my daughter down as gently as I can and quietly leave the room. In the kitchen, I grab a beer and let it drown my sorrow. I am helpless against the memories that threaten to spill out uncontrollably. Unconsciously I look up and my eyes fall on our wedding picture hanging on the wall and the pain washes over me.
Liz and I got married two years ago. I think we had always known we would end up with each other. We grew up together and were best friends for a little over twelve years. She had my heart right from the moment she kicked me in the knees for bullying her little brother. I deserved it as the rambunctious teenager I was. It simply felt right with her and I knew no one else could measure up.
“Baby, we are pregnant!”
The day I realized I was going to be a father was the happiest day of my life. It felt like a dream come true. I had married the girl of my dreams. So we prepared, painted the nursery, and waited in glee for the arrival of our baby girl.
Little did I know that my world would come crumbling down in a second.
Liz’s contractions started by 11 pm on that fateful day. I strapped her into the car seat and sped, eager to beat traffic and make it in time. Two policemen at the T-junction about fifteen minutes from the hospital waved my car down, demanding twenty thousand naira before letting us pass. I explained to one of the officers that I was rushing my pregnant wife to the hospital and I didn’t have cash on me. He asked for my papers, peered into the car, and laughed. I never forgot what he said, “na lie this one dey talk, she never reach to born, her belle suppose dey bigger na” in pidgin English, slurred by the excessive consumption of alcohol.
How on earth did the size of my wife’s stomach become the criteria for proof of being in labor?!
I was on the verge of murder since my wife’s painful groaning did nothing to change his mind. I shoved my papers at one of the officers, begging him to hurry up. Enraged, his colleague hit the side of my head with his gun and threatened to shoot if I raised my voice again. At this point, my wife couldn’t bear it. I guess seeing the blood dripping on the side of my face did it for her. With a strength I never knew she possessed, she held her tummy and slowly made her way to my side, shouting at the police officers to let us go while recording the incident. Seeing the phone in her hands was all it took for hell to be let loose.
I heard the gunshot and my world seemed to go into slow motion as I saw Liz clutch her belly, her eyes wide with shock. I saw a crimson stain pool around her fingers and then begin to spread. I saw the officers scurry away from the scene like rabbits. With plastic hands, I dialed “911” while cradling my wife and stood morose as the ambulance came. Holding my wife and watching her struggle to live broke me in more ways than one. But she held on until our daughter was born. The doctor called her a miracle child and I didn’t doubt that. But there were complications and my soul mate died on the operating table.
Picking up the wedding frame and hugging it as tight as I can, it suddenly dawns on me that I have to raise our daughter alone. I pray for the strength to live every day in a world that makes no sense. And all because I did not pay a bribe to a police officer whose duty was to protect citizens.
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Love,
Diane
