As you carried your son’s lifeless body, you realized this was God’s way of punishing you for all your evil deeds. This was His little reward for the decisions you had made in the past. You and Moji were going to name your son Ifedayo and you had practised a few times at home, shouting the name from the parlour and asking your imaginary son to pass you the remote. You had even made matching daddy and son outfits, some in the Kente material you got from your last trip to Ghana, others in the very expensive Dutch wax print you had bought two weeks ago on your way back from work. You hadn’t painted his nursery yet because he wasn’t supposed to come till eight weeks later.

You had ignored Moji’s calls because you were on a work call with some investors. You were depending on the money from the deal to fly her out for the delivery. Then your phone rang for the third time.

“Oga, your wife don get accident for this third mainland bridge o. E seem say she been enter labour and she come loose control of the steering. We dey take am to this hospital for Yaba.” the voice on the other end of the call said. It was the voice of a man with a very evident lisp.

You were dumbfounded and couldn’t make sense of what had happened. You had wondered if he hadn’t called the wrong number. But that was Moji’s phone number. You had saved her name as “Mo Heartbeat” with three love emojis and one pregnant lady emoji. She had laughed out loud when she saw it. You had added the last emoji after she told you she was expecting your first child after seven years of trying and two IVF procedures. You picked up your phone and car keys as you rushed out wearing your favourite black jeans, the orange polo she had gotten you for your fifth anniversary and your obviously fake Supra shoes.

The ride to the hospital was blurry as tears clouded your eyes like a baby dreading his first day of pre-school. Snot flowed from your nostrils and you wished you hadn’t let her leave the house that morning. She had woken up early to prepare breakfast of boiled yam and the catfish stew she had made a few days ago. You ate on the same plate as you watched her make slurpy chewing sounds. Eating together was one intimate non-sexual activity that made you enjoy marriage with Moji. Watching her devour the food, you noticed her greatly enlarged nose and very protruded belly. She was still the epitome of beauty you met at Mama Ebun’s rice and beans spot ten years ago in Ibadan. 

After eating, you showered together and she got ready to go get groceries and pick up your dry-cleaned clothes from the mainland. She had worn the brand new sunflower wrap dress you had struggled with one ugly girl at the mall. She had done her light makeup of foundation, lip liner and gloss, and had tied her hair in a bun.

“Oh my Moji,” you screamed at the thought of how much pain she must have been in, alone with strangers. You hated yourself for not picking up the calls. If something happens to her or the baby, you’ll hate yourself.

You picked up your phone to call Akan, your best friend. More like a brother because of the many sacrifices he had made for you. You had met him on your first day in Lagos Business School when he asked for directions. You both ended up attending the same class and soon, the conversations never stopped. You told him how you liked your roasted fish and how you never cooked with salt. He told you about how good Ekpang Nkukwo was and offered to make it for you one day. You went to bars together to drink beer, smoke and look at women, and that night when you both were too drunk, his tongue was in your mouth. Surprisingly, you didn’t tell him to stop and he continued doing very lovely things to you.

By the fourth encounter, you just could not stand yourself anymore. You were getting married to Moji in six months. Letting this side of you out wasn’t part of the plan, so you shut down things with Akan and told him you couldn’t continue anymore. You had to be perfect for Moji. She was your world and you couldn’t lose her. And Akan respected your decision out of love. That same love had him agreeing to give you his sperm for the last IVF procedure. It had to work. You prayed it did. By 2 am every night, you held hands with Moji and prayed in the living room. On some nights, Moji spoke in diverse tongues and you wondered if God even heard those prayers because of the sin you had committed. Moji wasn’t going to find out. Oh, not at all. 

As you walked into the hospital, you were greeted by a tapestry of scents - the pungent smell of izal mixed with faeces and urine, bleach and freshly laundered linens. You hated being there already. Why couldn’t they have taken her to a better hospital? Then you remembered that if only you had picked up her calls, she wouldn’t be here and you hated yourself all over again. African magic was on full display and the nurse at the counter was giving her full attention to the television. You asked for Moji and they told you she was in the operating room. You asked for more details and they said you had to wait for the doctor because they didn’t know anything. You began to panic and think of all the things that could go wrong. What if Moji dies? What if the baby dies? What if both of them die?

Then Akan arrived. He hugged you and it was everything you needed. Then you remembered you were two men in Nigeria and those types of things weren’t acceptable. You broke off from the hug and explained everything that had happened. How you didn’t know that she had been in an accident and how you hoped God would give you one more chance to make things right. Just then, the doctor came out and you asked how Moji and the baby were.

“We tried to help keep her alive…”

“Doctor, please you can’t be right. You need to go back in there,” you cut in.

“I’m sorry sir but she really fought to stay alive. The baby is stable and in the incubator but your wife didn’t make it.” the doctor replied.

And then the tears came in full force. It was like you had held in so much pain for years and it all finally came out to play. Your chest burned, your stomach squeezed and all you could hear was Akan telling you it would be fine. You knew he was lying because nothing would be fine without Moji in your life. Then a nurse came to call the doctor back. Something was wrong with Ifedayo. At that moment, you crashed to the ground and prayed like you had never prayed in your life. But was God a respecter of any man?

So when they told you that Ifedayo’s heart had stopped beating, you didn’t flinch. As you carried your son’s lifeless body, you realized this was God’s way of punishing you for all your evil deeds - liking a man, cheating on Moji, deceiving her and not picking up her calls. Maybe you deserved it. Maybe this is why you should have listened in Sunday school and crammed all the sins and punishments that came with them. Maybe you should have adhered to Mama’s warning when she caught you kissing Kola behind the house that evening. Maybe you should have remembered the beatings she gave you and how she told you God hated men who liked men. Maybe this was your reward and if God had given you a second chance, you would have done better.