Assistant girlfriend episode 14

November 2012
The harmattan that year had begun as timidly as a rabbit the month I got back home for the holidays, but a few days later the afternoon heat became more oppressive than I’d ever known it to be. My mother had said it was the worst she could recall, and dad said she had finally gotten her wish. Just like APC had done gullible Nigerians, she had brought him hell on earth. Yeah, my parents didn’t have a happy marriage.
Nature appeared as depressed as I was that season. The sun blazed warmer than usual during the day, licking off whatever moisture was left by the morning dew and the nights were no cooler than the days. At times the air was so heavy with humidity that my hair would become damp and no amount of hitting could make the itch go away. Thanks to the paralytic power supply too, we didn’t have fans or air conditioners to keep us cool during the day.
I can remember this summer of 2012 vividly because it was when things finally came tumbling down. A wind of truth was to blow into my affairs and bring my secrets to light.
I thought it was the heat and my own gloom that upset my stomach one night. My mother thought I might be coming down with some sort of dysentery. She gave me some pills and told me to go to bed early. She was a professional nurse and I believed her prescription would work wonders.



But the next morning I woke up just as nauseous and had to vomit again. My mother was worried, but once I finished throwing up, I suddenly felt better. My headache was gone and my nausea passed.
I tried to reassure her that the medications seemed to have worked but she looked thoughtful and unconvinced. I wasn’t sick again for nearly a week, but I was continually tired and sluggish, once falling asleep on the dining table.
One afternoon my mother noticed me returning from the toilet.
“How many times have you been to the toilet today, Dora?” She asked.
“A few. Just to pee, mom. My stomach’s okay.”
She still stared at me suspiciously.
And then the next morning I woke up and had the same nausea. I had to vomit again.
My mom came to my room and put a wet towel on my forehead and then she sat on my bed and stared at me. Without speaking, she pulled the duvet back, pulled up my pajamas top and looked at my breasts.
“How late is it?”
I was confused, “what mom?”
“Your period, Dora. How late is it?” She probed.
“A few weeks,” I admitted.
She was quiet. She looked away and took a deep breath and then she turned to me slowly, her eyes sad but firm. She sucked in some air and looked up before she looked at me again.
“How did this happen, Dora?” She asked softly. “Who got you pregnant?