H🔸A🔸B🔸I🔸B🔸A🔸T

~4~

  For days Amos ignored me. He slept in the visitor room and avoided me. Our quarrel began when I hadn’t revealed the pregnancy on my own. I had to sleep in the bedroom all by myself, sulking and wishing that I could talk to him, and even show him how much he hurt me.
  “Amos—” the coldness written all over his face made me stop. The ceramic plate in the plate rack caught my eyes, and I shifted, taking it. “You haven’t eaten since morning. . . Are you hungry?” I asked, observing him for a moment.
  “No.” he said and left the kitchen.
  My heart felt heavy, watching him leave. Cold, shaky, and with my breathing beyond normal, I kept the plate back in the rack and made for the sink—got the water running, and began wetting my face. O yẹ ki o ti sọ fun u…you should have told him, a voice rasped in my head. This is really my fault, I sighed with deep regret, turning and backing the sink. I wished I had told Amos on time, about the pregnancy. Looking down at my stomach, feeling a sharp pain cut across, I bit my underlip and clasped the sink, yelling at my loudest, as Amos and the twins came running. “Babe. Babe, what is it?”
  I was too weak to talk, grinding my teeth. The sight of the blood on my straight, house gown made my body congeal. I could only watch as Amos raised me. “Kowe, bring me my keys!” his voice loudened.
  My mind spiralled, and my throat tightened, as I groaned. I was taken to the car, one hand on Amos’ shoulder—taken in, I was made to lie, while my abdomen contracted. “You will be okay, babe.” My husband’s voice caught me, the remaining of it drowning away, as my eyes slowly shut.

  The constant beeping of God knows what woke me and I arose, though weakly. I looked around consciously, making out where I was. A hospital? I panicked, remembering the event that had happened last.
  “O ti kọja,”… you passed out. . .Amos’s voice came.
  “What?”
  “It was the moment you entered the car,” he narrated in English.
  I gaped even more and asked. “W-well, what about the b-baby?”  I stammered, eager to know how our baby was.
  He remained silent, and averted his gaze, forcing me to ask again, “Is he okay?” I’d hoped he was a boy, and he was really fine.
  “Habibat, you would have to brace yourself for what I am about to tell you,” Amos said.
   A string of worry laced my brows. “What’s wrong?”
  “You had a miscarriage—” the news came as a shock. I began crying, and Amos held me. “Eyi ni gbogbo ẹbi rẹ.” I found myself saying.
  “What?”
  I continued lamenting “Eyi ni gbogbo ẹbi rẹ—”…this is all your fault!
  “How is this my fault?” He asked.
  I clenched my teeth, agonized. “You ignored me for days and made me worry much,” I said. “You didn’t think for once that your actions would hurt me. . .All you cared about was me not telling you about the pregnancy. I’m sure you’re happy now it’s gone.” I blinked, realizing what I said. “Amos…”
  “Please—”
  A feeling of sadness and self-hurt grasped my mind and made me its slave. “I’m sorry,”
  “I’ll be outside.” He left, not looking back.
  I’d lost my child, he should understand. Omo wa. . .Our child! Things were taking a different turn and I certainly didn’t like it.

  “The doctor said you’d be discharged in the morning. For now, you have to rest.” A voice got my head lifted. It was him—

  “Amos, are you still mad at me?”

  His voice was hoarse, and his face turned. “We will have to talk about it when we get home,” a smile relaxed on his face, as he made to leave. “Get some rest.”

  “A-are you going somewhere?”

  “To buy you something to eat.”

  I said, “Alright.”

  Amos had one attitude that I was starting to hate—getting angry at the slightest of things.
I was discharged the next day and asked not to do anything. At least until I was completely healed. I called mama to come stay with us. . .And that was where the problem began.