Psyche

°V. Cellophane

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
C.S Lewis, A grief observed.

Nobody spoke.
They didn't know what to say.

Chika had been discharged from the hospital with no bundle. Kezie's eyes were void of emotion. Chika, well chika had not come out of baby's nursery since she arrived.

Kezie had stayed home for three days and had sat facing the Television wearing a black top and a grey joggers. He would come to sit after knocking on the door of the nursery and with no response, he would saunter to the living room with his shoulders hung low, he didn't blink, he didn't know what to feel.

Time seemed to pass slowly. It had been three days since they came home.

Kezie thought of how he would have been holding her tiny frame in his big arms looking down lovingly at her, the joy that would fill his heart when she smiled or held one of his fingers tightly clasped in her tiny hands. He thought of the name they would have finally settled on, Jephi'a, Jemima, Amara, Chidinma, Ifeanyi or Chinaza.

Whose personality would she have had, whose nose, colour of eye, skin color. Her very first steps, her first words. His skin tingled with just the thought of it.

Chika hadn't left the room since they had arrived. Had she taken her bath, brushed her teeth? Ughh! Those were irrelevant now. Where would she sleep, the only bed there was the baby's. Was! He never thought he would hate any word like was. Pins, hammers, needles prickled his head. He had slept on the couch because he couldn't stay in the room leaving Chika's side cold.

He wondered how Irene was. Shit! Irene. He totally forgot that she was with them. He didn't know what to say to her or better still, he knew what to say but his voice had gone with his daughter.

∆∆∆

Chika wrapped her arms around her waist  tightly. She shivered as she flicked her fingers through the cot and the wardrobe they had built for the baby.

She reeked.

Her eyes were bloodshot like that of a drunkard. Hell, she wished for a drink or two - to forget. Drink her sorrows away only to face them fair and square the next day. She shrugged. At least I will forget, when last had she even had a burning taste of a good wine or alcohol, she thought to herself.

She remembered the doctor's eyes as he pulled the baby gently, tapping her tiny legs that didn't move. The nurses stood there watching as he tapped the baby. She could tell from his eyes that he knew it was a stillbirth. He just wanted to be justified.

Her tear duct seemed to have dried because she was weak from crying. She had not eaten or had her bath in days or was it months. She wanted the pain to go but how. She felt like she caused this.

She saw the blood trickle from her thighs the week before now but she forgot to tell the doctor when she went for her antenatal. It wasn't even her due date. Silly me.

She sauntered to the bathroom to wash her face. The dried tears irked her. She opened the door stealthily and walked inside.

Turning the light on, She was met with her reflection. This isn't me.

Her thick black hair with light brown tips was a mess. Her eyes were dark and sullen and her face had lost its color. The eyes that once glimmered when she touch her abdomen had died leaving it void. Nothing.

They had waited three years. Three whole years. Three is one of God's favorite number. Three years became a crowd as her mother-in-law would chime in ways that can enable her womb, fruitful.