Grey

Piece submitted by Opeyemi Kareem

I open my eyes to the cream coloured walls of my dorm room. No, I am not just waking up – I barely even slept. I am just tired of lying still, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat, raging within my chest. The sound of movement informs me that I am not the only one conscious. It must be morning already. I sigh and close my eyes back. I am in no mood to see or speak with anybody.

A wave of pain hits me and I cling to my tear-stained pillow, stifling a groan. It had been like this all night but I couldn’t make a sound. I can’t let them know. Nobody can know. The pain passes and it is not until I feel dampness on my pillow that I realise that I had been crying again. I knew it was going to be painful. I have heard the stories but none of them described the feeling of being ripped apart from inside. After barely 2 minutes of rest, another wave of pain rocks my abdomen, raging like it was angry with me for what I did. I sit up with a jolt and a loud shriek, earning worried glances from my roommates.

“Bad dream,” I whisper quickly before they ask any questions. Amaka, my best friend of five years, looks at me with suspicion. I see her mouth move as she notices my swollen eyes. “Allergies.” I add, cutting her off while trying to avert my eyes to the other side of the room.  “The mosquito nets.” I finally say, trying to sound convincing but her face only grows more suspicious. I hadn’t even used the net to sleep last night and she knows me well enough to tell that I had been crying through the night.

And I cried. I have always been a deeply emotional person – a cry baby of some sort. But last night, I didn’t cry because I was angry or stressed or overjoyed. I cried because I wished I had a time machine to take back what I did but I can’t and it hurts. It hurts because this time last week, I wasn’t alone but now, even with a room full of people, I am utterly alone. My phone rings beside me and I see that it is my alarm. I have a lecture in an hour and I haven’t even taken a shower. I sigh again and lie back, facing the wall. Two hours of continuous talking from an underpaid man who just wants to bend half of all the females in the class over his desk is not what I need right now. 

“Funmi, you are stained o!” A voice whispers in my ear. I don’t need to turn to know who is speaking. The thick Igbo accent is a dead giveaway and only Amaka has the balls to come that close to me, knowing it will earn her one of my famous glares. “Is it your period that is disturbing you? Are the cramps that bad?” When I only respond with a silent nod, she takes it as her cue to leave and mutters a quick apology. It is not my period! I want to shout. I want her to hold me so I can cry my heart out but if I tell her, she will not pity me as she did a few seconds ago. It was just last week that she had shared a post to which I agreed with then.

‘Abortion is murder!’ It said, I can’t say I agree with it anymore because it will mean I am admitting to being a murderer.

I found out last week. I didn’t wake up in the morning to throw up like I had seen all pregnant women do in the films I watch. Everything felt normal. All the things I see now as symptoms appeared as coincidences. When I started craving Iya Moria’s amala daily, I blamed it on how delicious her stew is. When my breasts were swollen, heavy and sore, my period calendar alerted me that my period was close so I blamed it on PMS. When I slept in every free time I had, ‘school is wearing me out’ was what I used to console myself. It was until my period was a week late that I remembered the dangerous tussle I had with one of my ‘acquaintances’ on the night of my birthday party. I didn’t expect to be pregnant. We were careful, I made sure of it. But now that I am curled up in bed, groaning and crying as my baby is being forcefully evicted from its home, I guess we weren’t as careful as we thought. ‘We are too young’ is what he told me and I understood. He made it clear he didn’t want the baby. But as for me, I didn’t know what I wanted.

On one hand, I have always wanted to be a mother. Even as a child, I didn’t want to be a lawyer or a doctor like my peers. I wanted to be a ‘single mother’ like my mum. I was rebuked time after time but I wasn’t deterred. I wanted to experience the joys of motherhood. I wanted the stress that comes with it. That is why when the four test strips I took showed 2 lines each, amidst my shaky hands and racing heart, I smiled. I, Funmilayo Adebayo, was pregnant. I began to imagine a little version of myself running around, causing a ruckus and me at the centre of it all, admiring what I created.

But that image soon turned sour. My child was no longer running around but looking up at me in hunger. And me, at the centre of it all, looking down with tears in my eyes, knowing I have nothing to offer. My family along with society will spit in my face for getting pregnant at such an age. I will have no support and no way to take care of my child. I thought about school. Would I have to drop out of school? How will I get a job and make money? I have barely enough to feed myself, talk more of a baby. A baby who I am meant to give the world. Could I really do that to my child? Bring them in with nothing to offer them? And I knew the only solution. Even though it broke my heart, I knew it would be worse to bring them into this life only for them to suffer. I wish I had time. Time to properly think it over and make a decision. But like me grandmother used to say, ‘the more you wait, the worse it is going to get’. So, I made an appointment.

I did pray. I prayed to God to not let the pills work. I prayed to him to bring back my baby but I knew he wouldn’t answer me. How could he? How could he hear the prayer of a murderer like me? How could he bring back the one thing he gave to me freely and I killed? How can my baby forgive me? How can I make him or her understand that I wasn’t ready? That they would have led a miserable life? How can I apologise to them? How can I take back what I did? How can I tell them that I loved them before they even had a heartbeat? How can they believe me? How can I forget this pain?

I know that nothing will ever remain the same again. I made this choice and I know it is the right choice for me. But I wish I had a better one. One without all this pain and regret. I would never know if my baby was a boy or a girl. Or if either will have my eyes or ears. I would not get to see my precious baby or hold their hand. And that enough hurts!

I wish people could understand that even though I made this choice, it was the hardest thing I had to do. And because people just won’t get it, I know I have to live with this pain, alone, for as long as I can. And with my heart heavy with loss and guilt, I know I have to keep up a smile because the world cannot know why I’m grieving. If they do, they will shame me for it. 

I sigh dejectedly as another bout of sobs escape from my mouth.