There’s a metallic taste in my mouth as I write.
Today has been the most horrible day of my life. I wish I could rewind it but in the end, it would still have played out in exactly the same way. Because Siena would still have appeared on my doorstep at a little past 3 in the morning, dripping wet from the rain, shivering, with welts on her back and arms and black bruises on her face. And I still would have let her in, still would have rinsed out the blood in her hair, still would have mixed her a cocoa laced with gin because she isn’t just anyone, she’s my best friend, my cousin and the closest thing to a sister I will ever have. Her light skin was of an unholy pallor under the naked incandescent bulb. Her eyes were dull, flat, lifeless as she spoke. It would have helped if she was angry, I would have felt better. Or if she was sad. Or high on one of those pills she was always popping. I couldn’t deal with this lifelessness, this indifference to whatever happened.
“I made a mistake.” Her voice was low and disinterested. As if she was reading the care labels on clothing. “Did you hear me? I made a mistake. I don’t love him.”
“Okay.” I helped her change out of her torn, blood-stained tunic into one of my old tee shirts. I had to steel myself from retching at the crisscrossing of purple-black welts on her back. “Shall I heat water for you to bathe?”
“No. I’m pregnant.” She looked round the room we had shared until six months ago as if she were just seeing it for the first time. She still spoke in a formal whisper. “Can I stay here with you? Until I get everything sorted out?”
“Of course. Yes.” I wondered if she was in shock. I wondered what my chances were of killing someone and getting away with it. We were seated on the bed, close enough for the citrus scent of her perfume to overwhelm the lavender air freshener hanging over the doorway and I wanted to hug her and cry but I was afraid that touching her would hurt her and not just physically. She seemed … disconnected.
“I wanted to have the baby but I don’t love him so I can’t keep it. I don’t want anything that has to do with him. I just want…” She paused, cocked her head in thought, shook it slightly. “I don’t know.”
“No. Tell me. What do you want?”
She looked at me and tried to smile a smile that didn’t reach her eyes but her cheeks were swollen asymmetrical-like. “Why do you want to know, Pewe?” Pewe was her nickname for me because I was short, it meant Little One in the old tongue.
“Maybe I could help you … get it.”
“I want an abortion.” She examined her fingernails and then looked at me, and for a second, there was a flash of the old Siena in her eyes; sadness, defiance, hope. Then it was gone, and her black eyes bored into mine expressionless.
“I have some money in the bank. We’ll get it out in the morning and find a doctor. You’re sure you’re pregnant?”
“Yes.”
Four hours later and I was withdrawing half of my life savings. It wasn’t much; I’d only being in gainful employment for less than a year. Siena looked on, in bored fashion, in all her hurt glory. Her face and forearms were exposed for all the world to see, and shake their heads in pity. I resisted the urge to growl at a few people. Siena is taller than I am but I’m leaner and so beside her, I’m like her younger sister. But at that moment, like most of our adult lives, I was her defender, and I wanted to protect her from prying eyes and gossiping tongues. It would have helped if she had the same concerns. Her hair hung around her wan face in tangled locks and she’d refused the sunglasses I gave her with an ironic smile made grotesque by her swollen face. I wanted to kill him for what he’d done to her. I wanted to kill her for letting him do it.
It had rained all night, and it was still raining as we approached the euphemistically-named Reproductive Health Clinic. There were people standing in the rain with placards that read, “Babies Want to Be Born” and “Abortion is a Sin” and the like. Their eyes accused us as we entered the gates and I couldn’t resist glaring back. Who’d died and made them judge? Sinners casting first stones. Seated in the cool reception, thumbing through the catalogues and read-skimming the posters on the wall, Siena began to sing. Her voice wasn’t all it used to be when we were sixteen years old and fresh from secondary school and dreaming big dreams. It was wearied, her voice, and lonely and sad. It was appropriate; she sang of a beautiful girl who had believed lies, and succumbed to the vanities of her youth only to discover it was all a farce.
“That’s a stupid song.” I said to console her.
“I hate this.” She gestured at the pamphlet I held. “It’s going to bloody hurt.” And she sounded scared. I nodded. The procedure wasn’t pretty, even on paper. No doubt, the reality would be far worse. The receptionist had given us a seat in the waiting room and a nurse had gone to fetch a counselor. My eyes itched from lack of sleep and I had no doubt they looked as sore as they felt.
“Maybe I shouldn’t do it.” She rubbed her upper arms as if she was cold.
“We can’t afford to keep it.” I touched her arm. She bit her lower lip, looked away. “And besides, you said you didn’t want anything of his, right?”
“Maybe I could give it up for adoption.”
I snorted. I had been adopted. “If I were the kid, I’d curse you for it. Do you want to keep it?”
“No.”
The counselor came in, a tall, plump woman in a magenta dress with a brisk manner. She asked questions rapid fire, scribbling untidily on a board. Siena answered in a steady voice, but with every glance at me I saw the mounting terror in her eyes. She didn’t want to do it.
“Can I be in the room with her?” I asked.
“No.” was the curt response.
And then all too soon, Siena had changed into a green hospital gown, and her hair was caught up in a shower cap. As they wheeled her on the gurney, I held her hand and smiled bravely. She shook her head in misery. I started crying. I knew when they started tearing into her. She screamed and screamed and then I was sitting on the bench, sobbing into my lap, stopping up my ears with my fingers. But I could still hear her and so I started to barge through into the theatre but the counselor came and restrained me. “You could cause an infection.”
“Make them give her something, I beg you! Make her sleep!”
She shrieked like her very insides were being hollowed out, in her native Urhobo, in Yoruba. She screamed and screamed and screamed. She was shouting my name. She was shouting his name. She was crying, over and over and over the same words. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa!” She lost her mind in the pain. They wouldn’t even let her sleep over. Two hours later, we were in a taxi, home-bound. Her head rested on my shoulder and she was crying without a sound. I hated myself that I was healthy and strong and pain free while she suffered in her agony. She wouldn’t say a word. She lay down on the mattress and closed her eyes, but she was still crying. Even when I was convinced she was asleep, tears still leaked from her eyes. She would never be the same, she would never be ok. And so tonight, I write it out. To try and make sense. To understand. To share. I don’t know why I feel this urge to bare my very soul like I do now. Maybe I do it as a penance, to feel as shame what she feels as pain. I am her friend, her confidante, her sister. And I have failed to protect her. I fear she will never forgive me.
Related Posts via Taxonomies
Comments
sultana @sultana
social engineer, electrical engineer, writer...N*E*R*D :DGo to sultana's profile, and read more of his/her posts.
I felt her pain, I heard her scream and I felt your shame….Well done!
thanks! glad you like it
gosh
i was crying inside me
while reading your story.
very emotional and ofcos,
u told it well.
BIG UPS
thanks!
i like
Hmm, So nice. I like the flow, the pain was real. Reminds me of Frank Peretti’s ‘The Prophet’, that means you’re good!!
Frank Peretti is one of my favourite authors! I guess buying his books is starting to pay off…:)
thanks!
Even though it’s fiction, I still enjoyed the sincerity in this story. Well done!
thanks…*bashful grin*
Hey…You are good…love your piece…you’ve got the flow…
thanks…:)
hope i can live up to it!
SAD. FREAKING-ANNOYINGLY SAD.
WELL DONE.
thanks! that was the emotion i was aiming for and i’m glad you recognise it.
So sad. You told this so well. Thumbs up!
thanks! that’s a real compliment coming from you!
Really like the emotions with which the story was told. You’re surely gonna live with this guilt for a long long time. Very good story. Loved it. Don’t quite get screaming part. Do all females really scream like that? Or is hers physical, emotional and/or psychological?
Hey, Jay, u be woman? U no no before say woman dey scream like dat, eh? Abeg mind yourself, o!
Jay, just eh give your babe belle first and leave am for nine months, hm? Then afterwards go join am labour room if you insist on it. Na there u go no wetin SCREAMING be, u hear? *eying* Get my drift, hm?
Dat wan na delivery. It’s far worse during abortion. U go deaf by force!
Sorry have confirmed oh. It’s painful oh. Ladies sorry oh. I guess me’ll tell her to leave the pregnancy then. Mastress, hailing oh.
the abortion procedure is actually quite painful, Jay…i actually toned it down…imagine your innards being vacuumed with a vacuum cleaner…
Big sister Sultana, Never seen this side of you! I felt the pain too…. that means you did a really good job!
thanks…like i said, we need to talk!
Sultana, it’s really remarkable the way you move your audience to tears in this little tragic piece. It was well told. I’m impressive. You’re on your way into becoming a good creative writer in the nearest future. I’ve never read Frank Peretti, but you’re gonna make me hunt for him soon. If he’s such a good tragedian in prose-fiction, then I’m yearning to read him some day. I thank you for provoking the woman in me with this short fictional piece of yours, thank you. It’s a work of fiction who sounds so real. Good job, girl!
I just hope you won’t stick with Peretti’s voice for too long. I’d like to hear your own voice in your writings. Good that you were guided by him in the writing of this tragedy. Once again, good luck in your future writings, dear. *Thumbs up* 90 over 100!
this is my voice actually…Peretti is very descriptive, which is what RemiRoy was referring to. The story is mine, the plot is mine, the voice is mine. What i ‘borrowed’ was getting into the character’s head in such detail.
Yes dear my thoughts exactly. You’ve got your own voice and it’s loud and clear.
You’re good, permit me to say that again!
Ok, cool. It’s good, you know, to be guided. If this is your voice, it’s, em, great, really. Keep it coming!
thanks! i’ll try to aim for even higher quality
I totally agree with Emmanuella. This is very good, very written and the pain is seared into the fabric of the story.
However, I think the mixture of themes is a bit confusing. We went from domestic violence to abortion to personal failure. In such a short story, I think there needs to be a sharper focus.
Finally, it is your story and you decide what you want. But when the reader is dragged out of the story by details then it may require cross-checking your facts. I’ve not read of an abortion where the tearing causes so much pain like here. I think there’s anastesia and it’s a fairly straight forward procedure. Especially since we’re not talking quacks here but an official clinic.
Well Myne, I think from the way the story was woven, Siena was wide awake when the pregnancy was removed, so I’m sure it was a quack hospital Siena and the protagonist went to. I think Sultana’s attempt to blend these three issues in such a short piece was a good one, though they were not well-expressed, especially the domestic violence part. I was even surprised that a woman that battered was even pregnant. To me, that was amazing.
your critique is so cogent!
mixing the themes- to be honest, i wrote this off the top of my head, within an hour. i’m still working on trying for a particular purpose in my writing. i don’t quite know how my stories end when i start, all i’m aware of is the emotions i feel at that point in time. i wasn’t trying to highlight domestic violence or abortion. i was trying to highlight a friendship between two girls, where the one you would expect to have it all, the pretty, talented one is the one who is hurt and weak. it’s more about relationship ties, which is something that i find very fascinating.
Fact- some abortions are painful. e.g. u can’t get an anesthetic if you’ve eaten that morning. and the procedure takes about 10-15 minutes. so they won’t give you an anesthetic to knock you out, only a local. if they can…some people react to anesthetics…maybe i should have mentioned this somehow in the write-up but i took extra extra creative license. forgive me
A well illustrated story filled with tragedy..just what i need this afternoon when the whole world seems to be stepping on my toes! Great story sultana…letting her have an abortion was tantamount to killing her…even if the baby may have reminded her of her bullying man,she or he would have brought more joy than pain..
Hmmm… Must we always be told how difficult being a woman is? Yes we have to be told.. The tears has to be alive.. GREAT STORY!
it’s not about the difficulty…even tho’ yeah, we do have it tougher than men
Your expressions are so very vivid. I was actually wincing as I read the part where she was getting the abortion done. This is very well written. Great work.
Vivid imagery,very convincing…but I had a few problems with the plot progression.I understand perfectly what Myne said about abortion these days being painless and all.Emmanuella said it was a quack hospital,but with a cool reception with catalogues,magenta dressed plump counsellor,gurney etc…and the quack clinics are hidden in corners,pple dont know where they are to carry placards.
Having said that ,I felt what you wanted me to feel,which was the pain.I actually screamed Mae Culpa..along with her:-)
these r details i will remember in subsequent writing. however, it is not a quack clinic, was never meant to be
Very deep stuff here, sultana. Written with sensitivity, considering it’s a horde of touchy subjects: heartbreak, relationship violence, and of course, abortion. Tricky subjects, but you tackled them well!
Evoking!I think Siena’s flustered persona clicks with her fickle morals.After reading ur tale we must all doubly screen to vouchsafe every advice we offer our friends…a formidable moral lesson.Toodles… look no further,groit,ur pen peels!
I like the power of verisimilitude in this story. Its so convincing that I was begining to wonder if it really happened to you until I saw the ‘Fiction’ tag above. And since you have ‘Memoir up there too, I’ll take it that you meant it to be a ‘fictional memoir’.
Also, I agree with Myne. You need to be in touch with the facts on the details of abortion. Does it really involve tearing? Otherwise you could stay in the safe zone and not give the details.
I don’t see anything wrong with exploring more than one theme provided you do justcice to letting your readers understand each one and your movement from one subject to the next.
I’m impressed by your descriptive power; its image-conjuring and delicious for the imagination. Well done!
What else can one add when all them Amazons have said it all. Great piece. I can’t help but feel romance (even the violent kind) sells in naijastories. Loved the emotion wrenching journey this elicited. Well done Sultana…I think I said something,LOL.
so much pain, but that does not detract from thr fact that the story was well written.
Myne has raised very poignant points that would help the story if you consider them.That we write fiction doesnt mean we should lose touch with reality or what obtains.
Well done!!!
thanks!
i’ve tried to reply to Myne’s comment but again i must admit i took a lot of creative license just to achieve the effect i wanted. selfish, i know
you are a damn prolific writer,felt so sad reading this,it’s so vivid,deep and short,liked the flow and I think you should do more stuff on the personality of Siena,she’s so so battered but I like her.
Likey
Amazing stuff!!! i was hooked from the start to the end