By her fifth month, Tonia’s stomach had rounded into undeniable motherhood.
The local tailors by the roadside had grown familiar with her shape. She wore long, flowing gowns—mostly secondhand ones from Katangowa market that her mother adjusted to fit her swelling body. But even with all the layers, her pregnancy wasn’t something she could hide anymore. Not in the house. Not in the compound. Not even in her own skin.
Despite the quiet reconciliation with her mother, Tonia’s journey remained a lonely one.
Her father still refused to acknowledge her. He walked past her like a stranger in the same house..
It stung every time. But she learned to swallow it like bitter medicine—hard to take in, but necessary for survival.
Clinic Days
Every Wednesday morning, she would leave the house by 6 a.m. to queue at the General Hospital for her antenatal appointments. Her mother gave her transport fare and food flask but never followed her.
The hospital waiting area always smelled of antiseptic and sweat. Women from all walks of life gathered there—market women, bankers, teachers, students. Most of them were married. Some came with their husbands. Some with mothers-in-law. Tonia came alone.
And it hurt.
Every time a woman giggled beside her husband while rubbing her belly, it reminded her of what she had lost—or maybe what she never truly had.
She sat through the health talks—on nutrition, signs of labour, postnatal care—scribbling notes furiously in a jotter like a WAEC candidate. It gave her some sense of control in a life spiraling without permission.
One day, during the group session, the nurse said, “Pregnancy is not just physical. It is emotional. Your partner’s support is important. But if you don’t have that, support yourself. You are stronger than you think.”
Tonia felt her eyes well up. She pressed her lips together to stop the tears.
She wasn’t the only one in this boat. But it felt like she was paddling alone in the darkest corner of the sea.
The Cravings and the Madness
At six months, cravings hit her like spiritual attacks.
One evening, around 9:30 p.m., she began crying uncontrollably in the parlour. Her mother rushed in, alarmed.
“What is it?! What happened?!”
“Mummy…” she sobbed, “I want cold eba and goat meat. From Mama Uche’s place.”
Her mother blinked. “At this time? Cold eba?”
She nodded like her life depended on it.
The older woman sighed. “You, this girl… you’re lucky I didn’t kill you the day you confessed.”
And yet, 20 minutes later, her mother returned—panting and sweating—with a black nylon bag.
Tonia devoured the food like someone just freed from prison.
Then cried again.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, mummy.”
Her mother shook her head with a half-smile. “You’re pregnant. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
It was the first time in months they laughed together.
Night Terrors and Mood Swings
The nights were the worst.
Tonia battled terrible dreams—of blood, of Femi laughing at her, of losing the baby. She’d wake up panting, drenched in sweat, heart racing like she had run from Oshodi to Ikeja barefoot.
Sometimes she screamed herself awake.
Other times, she just sat in the dark, staring at the ceiling, rubbing her belly, praying silently.
She became irritable. One moment she was laughing; the next, she was crying.
Her younger brother avoided her like she carried a contagious disease.
“Mummy, she’s always angry,” he’d complain.
“Well, when you get pregnant, you too will be angry,” her mother replied without thinking.
They both burst into laughter.
Stranger in the Mirror
By the seventh month, her body had become alien.
Stretch marks laced her once-smooth hips. Her belly button popped out. Her breassts felt heavy like soaked towels. Her skin changed shades—sometimes glowing, sometimes dull. Her ankles swelled like small yams, and walking became a chore.
One afternoon, she stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom and stared at her reflection.
She didn’t recognize herself.
This wasn’t the slim, confident girl Femi had flirted with on the school walkway. This wasn’t the giggling teenager who used to dance in her towel after a bath.
This was a mother-in-the-making. Scarred. Transformed. Bruised but still breathing.
She traced the stretch marks with her fingers and whispered, “You’re growing a whole human, Tonia. Be proud of yourself.”
It was the first time she ever spoke kindly to her reflection since the pregnancy started.
A Rare Kindness
At the hospital one morning, a kind nurse named Sister Chioma noticed her silence.
“Na you dey come alone always?”
Tonia nodded.
“Your husband nko?”
“No husband.”
“Boyfriend?”
“He denied it.”
The nurse clicked her tongue. “Men. Some of them are not worth a sachet of pure water. But no worry. The child will be your crown. Mark my words.”
She smiled warmly and gave Tonia two extra packs of folic acid and a bar of milk soap.
That small act of kindness watered her spirit. In a desert of shame, it was an oasis.
Ending Reflection (Episode 3)
One night, while lying on the cold tiled floor of the parlour during a blackout—mosquitoes buzzing, generator humming in the distance—Tonia placed her hands on her belly.
The baby kicked.
She smiled through her exhaustion.
“No matter how hard it gets… I’ll never abandon you. Like he did to us. We’ll survive this storm.”
And somewhere deep inside her, she believed it.
Because motherhood had taught her something school never did:
Strength isn’t about shouting or fighting.
It’s about carrying the weight of the world with trembling hands… and still choosing to walk.
To be continued in Episode 4: Scars and Strength
