“Abigail keh?”, Bisola exclaimed, having picked up the phone that rang for the second time.

I was in my bedroom, sewing a new dress for Mma Basirat’s son’s wedding scheduled for the coming week. The poorly lit room was the largest in the two-bedroom duplex I shared with my husband, Tega, and maid, Bisola.

I didn’t possess the most conventionally beautiful features; bulgy eyes here, a huge nose there, and a hideous birthmark that graced the corner of my pink plump lips. My eye bags were on full display, evidence of my night-long sewing session. As I brought the sleeveless Ankara boubou to life, I watched the machine’s needle go in-out in-out of the material, blooming with colors of bright red, yellow, and burnt orange.

“Aunty Ada, come and hear what I’m hearing o,” Bisola shouted from the living room.

“Why are you shouting like a goat? What did you hear?” I replied as she rushed in.

“Ma, it’s your long-lost daughter, Abigail, on the phone o. You remember her, abi? The one that they kidnapped from the hospital that year.”

“Bisola, isn't it too early to play pranks? Don't you know I'm an old woman?”

“Ma, collect the phone and talk to her.”

“Hello?” Ada said into the phone, her hands sweaty, heart beating like the talking drums from last week’s church service.

“Hello, who is this?”

“Hi, mummy. It’s Abigail. Mummy, I’ve been trying to find you.”

“You’re a liar. You’re not my daughter. Liar!!” I screamed as I dropped the phone and ran back to my room.

—-

Beep sounds emanated from the big machine by Abigail’s hospital bed. I didn’t know what it was called, but the sound was really loud and it didn't let me sleep.

Nothing prepared us for the difficulty of having a sickly child. If I had known, I wouldn’t have married Tega. Aunty Bola from marriage counseling had warned me. I remember her holding her two ears, telling me I would suffer, and the only way out was calling off the wedding.

“Two AS people shouldn’t be allowed to get married, Ada. You will suffer, o. Your children will wish they weren’t born. Shotigbo?” she warned.

I watched as my daughter's 7-year-old frail body lay on the big bed. I touched her yellow-looking skin and observed the painful swelling in her feet. In that moment, I wished I could take all her pain away, you know, suck it all into my own body.

“It’s time, Ada. Let’s go for dinner,” Tega said, picking up his phone from the wooden chair by the room window.

Tears began to drop down my face as I took one more look at my baby girl.

—-

Fifteen years after I had made peace with this girl leaving me, here she appears again.

“Ada, what is this that Binta is telling me?” Tega demanded as he stormed into our room.

I remained silent as I still couldn't believe what had happened two hours ago.

“Ada, am I not talking to you? Woman, speak up, na.”

“Abigail,” I finally said.

“What happened to Abigail?”

“She called me.”

“Which Abigail?”

I looked up at the man who made me lose my baby. The baby that wasn't his in the first place. Knowing Tega was AS as well, I made sure I used contraceptives with him. I didn't want to suffer like Aunty Bola had warned. 

Instead, I met up with Agbor, my handsome customer who always gave me compliments that made me add an extra cup of garri anytime he bought from our kiosk. I didn’t know my actions would come back to bite me later, as Agbor was also AS.

“The Abigail we killed, Tega!” I screamed.