The Educated Skilled Episode 3 – He looked at me with so much hatred in his heart , I smelled a stench of disappointment from him as his face turned blue with hatred.I felt like dying but I had to stand my ground as he told me to go for dilation and cutting but I cut him off, he was furious with me and threatened to kill me.
That was then I knew when the line was crossed. Our marriage was over, Marriage is based on mutual understanding and we had none here.
I met Sebastian during one of my NYSC days, I was a biology copper in one of those rich British schools with fancy uniforms.
Sebastian happened to be a teacher in the school, an average white man with a great fashion sense and humour which could sweep any woman off her feet. I do remember in the teacher’s lounge, Sebastian came up to me and offered his hand in friendship after a long month of stalking me which I obviously noticed but decided to keep cool because I knew he wasn’t a violent person.
He was the role model of kids in the school, and that was a rare sight especially for temperamental teenagers with a massive tantrum. We started going out deep into the middle of my program there. He had a thing for young African girls with a bright future ahead, so he told me during one of our outings together before he spilt the bean and asked me romantically to be his girlfriend, of course, I agreed, why wouldn’t I?.
Even as a teacher, Sebastian was comfortable to the core, his house was more or less a mansion compared to most politicians house in the state, maybe it was due to the devaluation of the naira.
We planned on getting married but whenever I bring up the idea of kids, he would change the topic. I thought he wasn’t just in the mood of talking about children, maybe I was rushing things. Then I missed my period, I was pregnant, well not really sure until I confirmed it from the doctor which proved it positive.
I went home that they with a spark of joy in my heart, I was pregnant for a white man for crying out loud. I couldn’t just overcome the thoughts of the colour of the child. Would it be white, black or Irish, I thought while swinging my hips from side to side. I planned to tell Sebastian with the hope of speeding up the engagement and other nuptial rights but what I got was a big frown and a mouth telling me to go for dilation and cutting, What!
I refused such an opinion given to me by the father of this child, I asked him if I wronged him in any way but he told me that he wasn’t ready for a baby. I felt dumbfounded, I was in a big dilemma, he continued to persuade me to abort the child because he would never acknowledge the bastard. I gave into tears immediately hearing that statement.
Everyone around me was counting on me to be a promising child, a biologist and a homemaker, not a disgrace, but I wasn’t ready to abort this gem. Not too long after that incident, Sebastian came back begging me to come back to him, telling me how he made a mistake and how he would acknowledge the baby and there and then he knelt down and begged me in tears right in the middle of a shopping mall. Things came back to normal and extra blissful until I miscarried.
It was a painful experience for me leaving me deeply traumatized. I couldn’t eat or sleep, well stricken by insomnia with no one to share in my pains but Sebastian wasn’t even concerned at all, perhaps I should just let it go.
I came back one evening after work to find Sebastian smoking weed. I was furious which made me shout at him but he blotted me out and warned me never to question his lifestyle. I thought I could change him before we got married and that seemed to work with just a little nudge and care. He later proposed to me during one of our outings and I accepted without batting an eye.
We started planning our wedding but my parents were not in support of the Union. According to them I couldn’t be married to someone I met only for three months but what do they know about love, they are old school and this is the 21st century. I tried again to plan for our kids but he told me he didn’t want kids because they smell and they were lousy, but I wanted kids really badly but I loved him to the extent that I didn’t want him to leave me, he was the sole owner of my life.
Two years of marriage, No pregnancy.
I felt followed by the village people, but anytime I felt that I could be fertile he wouldn’t be ready for me. I tried to make him see reasons for childbearing but all to no avail. I kept holding all this in my heart until I got fed up and I sought alternatives.
Then again, I missed my period. Scared to tell him, I tried to keep it a secret until it was late. he eventually found out.
He looked at me with so much hatred in his heart , I smelled a stench of disappointment from him as his face turned blue with hatred.I felt like dying but I had to stand my ground as he told me to go for dilation and cutting but I cut him off, he was furious with me and threatened to kill me.
That was then I knew when the line was crossed. Our marriage was over, marriage is based on mutual understanding and we had none here. I filled for a divorce carrying along with my child with me. I could deal with his smoking and drinking but not caging me from carrying my child in my arms
Walking out of that marriage was the best thing that ever happened to me since I got married, my parents accepted me with reluctance but after all I was their daughter. I stayed with them until the last moments of the pregnancy. Although my brothers taunted me with the last statement I made to my parents “21st-century marriage” but I didn’t flare up, instead I felt ashamed. Still, they were supporting.
Five years after, A mother of two, a teacher and a wife, I tried my best to be there for my son even after remarrying, my husband was a supporting man with mutual understanding for me and my son. My son was my joy, my life, my God’s gift. Although I heard Sebastian remarried, I never felt jealous only sorry for the helpless fellow that married him. All that mattered was my Son, My Irish offspring.
When she was old enough to speak, “mummy I want to go home” was her first fully constructed sentence, of course there were single words “momma”, “dada”and things like that, but that was her first full sentence.
She was a sickly child: always falling sick. If it wasn’t malaria it’ll be diarrhoea. If it wasn’t an ache in her tummy it’ll be her head or a skin rash. There was always something wrong with her and she was always blurting out “ mummy I want to go home”. It baffled me for a while why she would keep on repeating the same sentence over and over again until I figured it out.
I work long hours and she goes to nursery school. It breaks my heart to leave her there but I can’t afford a househelp. As soon as I turn up at the school gate she’s bounding out with her little pink back-pack strapped to her back screaming “ mummy I want to go home”. It was as if she couldn’t wait to get out of there.
It was just after her sixth birthday when she fell ill and had to be admitted to hospital. She’s been admitted before but only for a day or two.
This time she’s been in for over a month and the doctors were baffled: they didn’t seem to know what was wrong with her. All their tests proved inconclusive.
I had to take time off work so I could be by her side.
As I kept vigil at her bedside she would drift in and out of consciousness muttering “ mummy I want to go home”. With tears streaming down my face I would re-assure her that as soon as she was well enough I would take her home
One night I woke to her gasping for air. As I cradled her in my arms I summoned the duty nurse who came running. She took one look at her and dashed off to find a doctor.
When the doctor came he did all the usual checks: took her pulse, listened to her heartbeat and flicked open her eyelids.
By the time he got up from the side of her bed the look on his face said it all.
He pulled me away, to the ward’s side office, and gave me the news I was dreading.
She was sinking fast and there was nothing he could do. Hopelessness was written all over him.
How long has she got, I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders: he didn’t know.
It was too late to call anybody so I rushed back to her side with the doctor in tow.
Her breathing was becoming shallower and laborious and all the equipment she was hooked up to were beeping away in a language of their own. With tears streaming down my face in torrents I turned to the doctor for an interpretation.
He didn’t say anything. He shook his head slowly, put his hand on my shoulder, as if to reassure me, smiled weakly and walked away.
She looked so peaceful and serene as she lay there: you wouldn’t think anything was wrong with her.
She must have heard me sobbing for she opened her eyes and what could be described as a smile crossed her face.
“ Mummy…”, she began, struggling to get each word out,”…I’m going home now”.
She closed her eyes and was gone.
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