Hope.

Nnwa. I write because it is easier speak what you cannot say. My walls now have ears. It is not the same. I had thought your coming would be the shove that would finally let me be. It would seem it had only begun. What do they say about seasons and each coming with its own winds? The things I will see in this world are too much.

Did I mention that your father’s mother has taken to ensuring I drink this ugly concoction 4 times a day? It tastes no better than it looks. She says she will die before she lets me spit it. It is supposed to build your bones or something or other. Honestly, I cannot keep up. I just want to breathe and wait for your father to tell him how many times you kicked that day. If only the doctor did not insist on this bed rest nonsense, I would not have to suffer this invasion. Or perhaps if I had my own mother…

The woman means well. Maybe. If I am not sure it is only because she monitors everything that goes into my mouth like a hawk. She has somehow convinced herself that I cannot feed us appropriately, so even the water I drink is from her hand. It is almost as though I can no longer be hungry or thirsty of my own free will. The unfortunate thing probably thinks I have been eating poison because I do not want her son to hold his own. She should move back to her own house. That is all I am saying. There is a reason why she did not marry her son. But who am I to speak in the presence of fertile wombs? It is not once I have been reminded in my own house that a childless woman’s voice is carried by the wind. It would seem your people take pleasure in telling me it is only one that has suckled a child that can speak before others. If this thing does not kill us both, I will not shut my face.

I stay mostly in my room because at least then, it is mostly your father that I see. Your father that I talk to. At least then if I am asked how we are doing, it is because of love. Not on suspicion that I secretly eat my own children.

She is knocking on my door now. If ever I thanked tradition, it is at this moment because she will have to leave that nonsense by the door today. I will wait and bring it in quickly. The sink shall feed on this midday treat. It has been a miracle that she has not realised the plumber keeps coming because “my hot water will not work for me today.” If it clogs the pipes, whatever it is, it is surely not for us. Your father tries it the other day. He has not asked again why I keep clogging the sink and I am getting too swollen to be the polite drinker of anything that comes in a flowered glass. I think the flowers are supposed to make it more endearing. But it continues proving political, this moving of people back to their own homesteads and me, I am getting to that place where all the energy I have, is to breathe and be happy. I pray you come before I commit one form of something or another.

And you, you are my escape. Like how your tiny feet seems to be lodged between my ribs and no matter how gently I try to nudge you out you insist on wiggling it right back. How it is a sharp, beautiful pain to know that you are there. To know that there is hope. I do not know if I could be happier. Feeling you has been a welcome distraction these past weeks. Like how your tiny feet seems to be lodged between my ribs and no matter how gently I try to nudge you out you insist on wiggling it right back. How you seem to come out to play when you hear your father’s voice. To feel you. To know that there is hope. I do not know if I could be happier. Yet some parts of me are still afraid that I may wake up from this dream.

Remind me to ask your father to call the plumber again. My hot water may need some more help after all.

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