The Son of the House

by Cheluchi Onyemelukwe

  A current like an electric shock ran through me. Did he say he would take me to a woman to remove the baby? Our baby?

  ‘But …’ I began, sitting up.

  ‘But what?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘Am I not keeping the baby?’

  ‘Do you want to keep the baby?’ he asked. Now he was putting on his clothes as if in a hurry, looking everywhere but at me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, wondering if I could relax now. Perhaps he was testing me. He must know that was wrong, so utterly wrong. And it was our baby, the baby we had made together. I knew it would be difficult; Mummy and Daddy would send me away. Urenna’s parents would not be happy, but there must be something we could do.

  ‘You cannot keep the baby. What will you tell Mrs Obidiegwu?’ he said quietly and patiently, as if lecturing a three-year-old who was demanding a sharp knife for a toy.

  Confused, I stared at him.

  ‘What will you tell your stepmother?’ His face now wore a sneer.

  He did not wait for an answer. ‘Get dressed,’ he told me brusquely. ‘I will talk to someone this evening, and I will find out about that woman. You must remove that thing as quickly as possible.’

  After my meeting with Urenna, I repented from my stupidity. Of course, I would have to remove the baby. Urenna was still a student; he had no money. Besides, his parents would never allow him, their only son, to marry a housemaid. I told Chidinma, but she had no solution for me. She said I had to be careful. We agreed that it was best that I did as Urenna said. If I insisted on keeping the baby, Mummy and Daddy would find out. They would send me home. I had nothing to give a baby. And I could not imagine the shame Mama Nkemdilim would pour on me.

  I cried myself to sleep each night. It felt to me that death itself could not be as hard as the life I was forced to endure, knowing what I had to do.

  I waited for Urenna.

  But Urenna never did send me to anyone. Instead, after a week, he sent me a note. It said that he was travelling and would not be back for a little while and that he hoped I would take care of ‘that thing’.

  Ikenna saw me crying in my room. He asked, ‘Are you all right? Did Daddy make you cry?’

  That made me cry harder. But I made him promise not to tell his mother that I was crying. I wanted to keep my secret just a little longer.

  I had been foolish. This knowledge did not galvanise me to action; instead, it made me numb. Numb with the knowledge that soon I would be found out and that I had no recourse. Not even with Chidinma did I discuss it, though she was clearly worried for me. The title song of NPP, one of those new political parties, rang in my head – ‘Ebe ka anyi ga-ebinye aka, ebe esere mmadu, ebe esere mmadu ebe esere mmadu.’ That jingle played on the radio and in my head incessantly. Vying for the position of governor or president seemed so much easier than dealing with the position I had found myself in.

  ‘Are you putting on weight?’ Mummy asked me one day. If I was not so afraid I would have muttered, like I did when Chidinma asked me the same question, that hunger gnawed at me as never before, and that I walked through the kitchen several times a day looking for leftovers, anything at all to eat.

  I did not have the bouts of nausea and endless vomiting that Mama Nkemdilim had had with her children. My slender figure had hidden its secret well. But I knew that my breasts were bigger, that there was a small curve to my belly that had not been there before, and that, even though I still got my monthly ration of sanitary towels from Mummy, my monthly visits had ended months ago – I was not even sure when. I still could not be called fat, but it was obvious to the discerning eye that I was bigger than I used to be. My clothes clung to me, announcing the changes my body was undergoing.

  ‘No, Ma,’ I responded. I saw her eyes narrow at me. I knew that trouble was waiting for me.

  It was almost another month before anything else was said. This time, it was Daddy. He stood watching me as I cleaned the sitting room. His staring made me uncomfortable, not only because I worried, as I had in the past, about whether his perfectionist gaze was picking out my ineptitude but because I now had something to hide. He must have said something to his wife, for Mummy came out a few minutes later and summoned me to the dining room.

  ‘Are you all right?’ was how she began.

  ‘Yes, Ma.’ I had a pounding headache. But that did not count. I knew what she was asking.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she insisted.

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  Then she came to the point. ‘When was the last time you saw it?’

  I knew what ‘it’ was, but I did not speak. I remembered the first day I’d come to the house – how she had come to my room with the sanitary pads in a blue packet and how I had not known what they were but was happy that I knew what the ‘blood at the end of the month’ was.

  I could not speak. Instead, I let my eyes roam to an old black-and-white picture of Daddy’s parents, which took pride of place in the centre of the wall, next to where Mummy was standing. They sat side by side, Daddy’s parents, staring at the photographer, the woman smiling a little, the man serious. They were dressed in the inimitable make-up of youth, and in old-style clothes – the man in a suit that looked a little too big on him, the woman in a dress and hair braided with black thread. I must have seen this picture thousands of times, dusting, cleaning, serving guests, appearing to answer a query before Mummy, sitting on the soft red couch, pretending to watch TV as I sipped water from a glass when my employers were away. My eyes must have fallen on these people from another time so often that I ceased to see them. But today I desperately stared at their image, etched in time.

  ‘Have you gone deaf?’ she shouted when I did not respond.

  ‘Last month,’ I lied.

  ‘Last month?’ she asked with disbelief in her face, her tone.

  ‘Yes, Ma.’ It was an untruth. After a fashion. I truly was not sure what the truth was, how long those periods had gone missing.

  ‘Stand up straight. Let go of the chair,’ she commanded.

  I released the chair that I had been leaning on, partly because I was tired – I got tired so easily these days – and partly because I hoped to hide how tight-fitting my clothes had become. I sucked in my stomach, scared, unable to pray.

  Mummy stared at me with wide-open eyes. I saw when the truth came into them, like a blind woman seeing for the first time.

  ‘Ewu Chi m o!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nwabulu! Nwabulu, are you pregnant?’

  I looked down at my feet. I had not prepared for this question, this moment. I had no plan for handling it.

  ‘No, Ma.’ It came out wooden, sounding like the lie that it was.

  She came to me, walking quickly past the two chairs by the side of the table, chairs that remained empty when Mummy and Daddy ate together as a family because no other child had come since Ikenna. I did not know her intent until she pulled up my dress with a sharp movement.

  The small round curve was obvious, even though I had kept my belly sucked in. It spoke the truth my mouth had denied.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘Chineke! Who did this, eh? Who got you pregnant? Is this how you reward me for all the training you have received here?’

  Tears fell from my eyes unbidden and made their way down my face.

  Ikenna came out of his room and, perceiving that all was not well, ran and put his arms about me. ‘Mummy,’ he asked, ‘is Nwabulu all right?’

  She did not wait for me to answer. Instead, she said, ‘Ikenna, go to your room,’ pointing in that direction. He made to argue but the look on her face sent him scampering away. Then she burst out, ‘Emeka, Emeka, come.’

  Daddy came. He simply stared at me when his wife told him. I had never seen him control himself like that before. His cold, silent gaze whipped me more than his wife’s hysterical anger.

  ‘Who got you pregnant?’ he asked.

  ‘Urenna,’ I said. Afterwards, I would think that it was the fear of the cold fury in his eyes, his rigid, controlled body, that ma
de me tell. I had not planned to.

  ‘Who is Urenna?’

  I explained.

  ‘What?’ Mummy shouted. ‘That boy?’ I could see her recalling seeing him at the gate those two times.

  They made me put on my slippers, and Mummy and I walked to Urenna’s house at number 16. Mummy did not complain about the dustiness as she often did. Instead, she railed at me and told me that I had thrown my life away; after all they had done for me, all the opportunities they were giving me to better myself and be useful to my family, here I was carrying a big belly about …

  At the black gate, fear overtook me and I almost ran back home. Mummy pressed the bell and waited. I prayed Urenna would not be home.

  Chidinma came to the gate.

  ‘Good morning, Ma,’ she said. I saw that she was trying not to look at me.

  ‘Is your madam home?’ Mummy asked.

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  We walked into the house. Chidinma led the way.

  We stood inside the sitting room, waiting for Mrs Aniagolu. I had been here before many times, sat on the brown leather and watched the big three-legged television with Chidinma. Yet, in my fear, it felt different, strange.

  ‘Good morning.’ Urenna’s mother breezed in with the smell of some perfume. I felt my belly heave in protest. ‘How are you?’ She smiled at her visitor. Her eyes touched on me but slid away. She had seen me before, coming to the gate to get Chidinma for school, but that was all.

  ‘I hope all is well. Please sit.’

  Mummy sat. I kept standing. No one invited me to sit.

  ‘What do I get you?’ I could see that she was curious. She and Mummy were only neighbours, not friends. They did not visit each other. Mummy said that Mrs Aniagolu felt too big because of her career and because her husband ran a brewery. Chidinma said that Urenna’s mother thought that Mummy was not friendly.

  ‘Nothing, thank you. It is still a little early. I came to discuss a problem.’

  ‘A problem?’ A frown came on Urenna’s mother’s face.

  ‘Yes, you see, we have had this girl with us,’ Mummy said, gesturing at me, ‘for over four years. Never a problem before now. But we have just discovered that she is pregnant.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Urenna’s mother murmured, still frowning.

  ‘Em,’ Mummy began and hesitated, ‘she says your son is responsible. I am not sure what to think, so I thought I should come here and talk to you.’

  ‘That is impossible.’ Mrs Aniagolu’s face had taken on a pinched look. ‘My son is in the university where he meets lots of nice girls. I am not sure why your girl,’ her eyes raked me in derision, ‘wants to pin her trouble on him.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was all Mummy said for a moment.

  ‘Urenna is not home,’ his mother announced. A whole lake of relief poured over me. I could not bear to see him in these circumstances. ‘I will speak with him when he returns.’ A tone of finality and a closed look on her face told us that the discussion was over. For now.

  Mummy had just got to her feet when the door opened and Urenna came in. He was wearing running clothes and he was sweating. He looked as handsome to me as he was the day I saw him in the Fela shirt and afro.

  ‘Good morning, Mum,’ he greeted his mother. ‘Good morning, Ma,’ he said to Mummy. His face was closed to me, serious.

  ‘Good morning,’ Mummy said.

  Mummy stood up, but waited. She was not going home empty-handed. Urenna’s mother looked at her.

  ‘Do you know this girl?’ His mother gestured at me.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, considering. ‘She looks familiar.’ Me, familiar, my insides screamed, thinking of the uncompleted building and the hard, uncomfortable floor. ‘Oh, I see. I remember now.’ How smooth he sounded, how confident. ‘I think she has come here for Chidinma.’

  Was Chidinma going to get in trouble? I wondered.

  ‘She claims she is pregnant and you are responsible,’ said Urenna’s mother. Hers was a tone of complete disbelief.

  ‘What?’ Laughter escaped him. ‘The housemaid? Mum! I can’t believe you would ask me that.’ He looked like he had never seen me before. ‘Something is wrong. Is she crazy, the housemaid? Do you know me?’ he asked me angrily.

  In the face of his vehement denial, my tongue refused to move. He was not Urenna. Not the boy who brought me books, who said my name was beautiful. This was a demon in running clothes, his good looks obliterated by anger and hate and lies.

  ‘Could you tell them what you told us?’ Mummy said.

  I stood there, unmoving, silent, numb with fear and disgust. They were all against me, even Mummy.

  After a minute or two, Urenna’s mother said, ‘These girls can be mischievous. I suggest you take her home and question her some more. It is likely that another houseboy has done this.’ She was dismissing us from her home, all effort at friendliness gone.

  After we came back from Urenna’s – having left behind his denials, his determination to look everywhere, even at the raging anger of Mummy, everywhere in the world but at me – I sat in my bathroom, the housemaid bathroom at the back of our house, and wept aloud. Mummy had told me that she would not keep me in the house and that I would go back to my stepmother the very next day. I had expected nothing different. But still, my heart felt broken into many pieces.

  I heard Ikenna come and hover around outside, heard him say my name, but I did not answer. He waited a little and left. I wept and wept. Tears flowed until I thought blood would come.

  Later, I went to the kitchen to get something to feed my belly, which asked for food incessantly now. As I was about to leave, I heard Mummy speaking with Daddy in the sitting room.

  ‘Here I am, trying everything to give Ikenna a brother or a sister. And yet Nwabulu opens her legs once, and she is carrying around a belly. And that boy is denying it. I know he did it.’

  ‘It is his word against hers. I will not enter into a wrangle with my neighbours over a girl who lacks common sense.’ His voice conveyed finality, like he had already closed the door on me. Like I was already with Mama Nkemdilim in Nwokenta and he was interviewing another girl and asking, ‘Do you shower every day, do you wash your hands when you use the toilet?’

  ‘Idiot,’ his wife agreed. ‘And here we were, thinking of her future.’ I heard her irritation, but I thought that she sounded the way she did when Ikenna hurt himself or asked when he would have a brother. Sad.

  With tears coming down, I rushed to my room. I could not stand to hear more.

  Later that night, as I packed my things in preparation for going back to the village, I tried to suppress the bitterness that rose in my mouth, the fear that made my heart beat fast and filled my belly with dread, the regret of throwing away an education, a future. I could not even say goodbye to Chidinma, though our eyes had met as Mummy and I left their house. There had been tears in them, though I did not, could not, acknowledge them at the time.

  I wiped my eyes now of the tears that poured from them unrelentingly. I put my clothes and the small collection of books in my bag. I did not stop to read the titles of the books. I knew them by heart – Things Fall Apart, a simplified version of Oliver Twist, another of Gulliver’s Travels, and Agatha Christie’s Sleeping Murder.

  My packing done, fear felt free to engulf me. Mama Nkemdilim would certainly kill me and my baby. I stopped short at the thought. Baby. I had not thought too deeply about the growing baby in my swelling belly before now. But now that it was out in the open, it crystallised itself into something almost solid. How would I raise a baby? In Mama Nkemdilim’s house?

  A small sound came at the door. It was Ikenna, my young friend, the one who had taught me to read. He hugged me tightly, tears running down his face. I hugged him back, holding him close as long as I could, until his mother called for him.

  He had brought me a book, a present to remember him by: a book of fairy tales.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mr Hyacinth came to the house to get me the next day.

&nbs
p; ‘We are very disappointed. We thought we would send her to Commercial School,’ Daddy told him.

  ‘It is too bad,’ Mr Hyacinth agreed.

  ‘Let her tell you whose baby it is and how she tried to blame it on the son of our neighbour,’ Mummy said, with remarkable restraint.

  As I walked with Mr Hyacinth, Ikenna ran out and held me. ‘Nwabulu, please don’t go.’ Tears blinded me as I held him. Mummy came out and took him by the hand and led him back to the house. His wails followed me, yet I could not bear to look back.

  I cried all the way to New Market, the dusty place from where we took a bus to the village. A small, dark man who made himself big or small as the occasion demanded, Mr Hyacinth showed little emotion as we boarded the small bus back to Nwokenta.

  ‘Your stepmother will not be happy,’ was all he said. The very definition of understatement.

  When we got to the village, Mama Nkemdilim wailed for all the neighbours to hear. She told him that this had not been her expectation when she agreed to his proposal to send me off to live with Daddy and his wife. She reminded him that he had said they were good people, yet they had dumped me on her in this condition without ceremony and without as much as a backward glance, after five long years.

  Who did this to me, she wanted to know. Could he not be made to marry me? Mr Hyacinth was conciliatory. He did not look at me, but I heard the blame in his voice when he said he had never had this sort of situation before, and that he would enquire and let her know what he found. He came back the following weekend and said he had spoken to Daddy and to Urenna’s parents. He said that Urenna denied responsibility in vehement terms. These were rich people, he warned Mama Nkemdilim. As he saw it, there was nothing that we could do. His parents said they believed him. We did not have money and could not talk to the police or sue them in court. Even if we could, there was no way to prove that I had spoken the truth. It was best to let the matter lie and live with things as they were.

  And so I returned to the red dusty earth of the village. Almost all the roofs were now corrugated, replacing the thatch of the huts I had left behind. People who still lived in mud houses put a modern roof on top of the mud, like the wide, colourful hats Mummy and her friends wore to All Saints Church. Still, Nwokenta was not Enugu; the gulf of development lay wide between them.