Tonia’s eighth month came with a new kind of silence—a heavy, uncomfortable one that settled in her bones and refused to leave.
The kind of silence that creeps in when your body starts to feel like a burden, when your soul feels stretched thin, and when the world treats you like a ticking bomb. Every step felt heavier. Every movement slower. Sleep became a privilege she could no longer afford, as her belly got bigger and the baby seemed to rehearse karate at midnight.
She barely spoke these days, even to her mother.
Her mood swings were worse now—tears over spilled water, anger at unwashed plates, laughter at random thoughts, followed by sudden sadness. Sometimes she hated herself for feeling too much. Other times she feared feeling nothing at all.
Her body, her emotions, her mind—none of them belonged to her anymore.
The Stares, The Whispers
She had become a topic in her neighborhood. She saw the way Mama Ifeoma looked at her when she passed by. She heard the whispers from the roadside pepper sellers.
“Na that deaconess pikin be that?”
“See as belle big. And no husband.”
“These girls of nowadays… no shame.”
She even overheard a boy shout once, “Baby mama! Wetin you carry for there?”
She kept walking. Head low. Tears pricking her eyes.
Sometimes, she asked herself if she deserved it. Maybe she did. Maybe this was the price for her recklessness. But a small voice inside her always said:
“No. This is not your punishment. This is your process.”
Church of Shame
Against her instincts, she followed her mother to church one Sunday morning.
Her mother had told her, “You can’t hide forever. You didn’t kill someone. Stand tall.”
So she wore her maternity gown, tied her hair back neatly, and walked into church with her mother by her side.
But nothing could prepare her for the stares. The cold nods. The awkward silence that followed her every step.
The woman who used to invite her for youth programs now looked through her. The choir director asked her gently, “You’re not singing today, right?”
“No,” she replied softly. “Just here to pray.”
She sat at the back, near the door, like a visitor in her own house of worship. When the pastor spoke on purity, he threw a glance in her direction.
She felt like a sermon.
But she didn’t get up and walk out.
She stayed.
And when it was time for prayer, she closed her eyes, placed both hands on her belly, and whispered:
“God, I know I messed up. But don’t let this child carry the weight of my mistake.”
Learning to Love the Baby
At night, she began talking to her unborn child.
She would sit by the window when everyone had gone to sleep, rubbing her belly and speaking in whispers.
“Your father may not want you, but I do.”
“I don’t know how I’ll pay for your diapers, but I’ll try.”
“I’m scared. But maybe you’re my second chance.”
She noticed the baby kicked more whenever she spoke. Like it understood. Like it wanted her to keep going.
She started singing lullabies. Taught the baby her favorite song. Promised bedtime stories. Promised protection. Promised love.
And slowly, the bitterness began to fade.
Because she was no longer carrying just a mistake. She was carrying purpose.
A Visit from the Past
One afternoon, as she was returning from her antenatal visit, waddling home under the blazing sun, a familiar voice called out behind her.
“Tonia?”
She turned. It was Chiamaka—her former coursemate and hostel neighbor.
The girl’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus. Is this really you?”
Tonia smiled weakly. “It’s me.”
“Ah-ah. But you just vanished from school. I didn’t know you were… you know…”
“Pregnant?”
Chiamaka nodded awkwardly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.”
They walked a bit together. Chiamaka offered to help her carry her handbag. They talked about school, missed lectures, and the gossip that went around after her sudden disappearance.
“Some people said you ran away,” Chiamaka said.
“I guess I did,” Tonia replied.
When they reached her street, Chiamaka hugged her gently.
“You’re strong, Tonia. I couldn’t do this.”
Tonia blinked. “I didn’t think I could either. But look at me.”
The Nurse’s Words
At her next hospital visit, Sister Chioma pulled her aside.
“You’re due next month. Are you prepared?”
Tonia shook her head.
“Do you have baby clothes? Wrapper? Soap? Sponge?”
Tonia hesitated. “Not yet. We’re managing.”
The nurse nodded and went into a small cabinet. She returned with a nylon bag containing three used baby rompers, two wrappers, and a small baby powder.
“It’s not much. But start from here.”
Tonia wanted to cry. Again. But this time, it was from gratitude.
“Thank you, ma. God bless you.”
The nurse smiled. “God already has. That child will bless your life. Don’t let society bury you before you rise.”
Her Mother’s Quiet Love
Later that week, her mother returned from the market with a small package wrapped in newspaper.
She handed it over without a word.
Inside was a new baby cap, socks, and a feeding bottle.
Tonia looked up in surprise.
Her mother shrugged, feigning indifference. “The woman selling it said it’s imported. I bargained well.”
Tonia laughed. “Thank you, mummy.”
Her mother nodded, then added:
“I still wish you waited. But what’s done is done. Just make sure you rise from this stronger. Let this be your last heartbreak.”
Tonia nodded solemnly.
“It will be.”
Ending Reflection (Episode 4)
That night, as she folded the tiny clothes one by one, something shifted inside her.
Not just the baby. But a quiet power.
She wasn’t broken anymore.
She was healing. She was rising.
Her scars had not disappeared—but they had started to shine like medals.
And in that moment, she whispered to herself:
“They tried to shame me…
But I found my strength.
I found my voice.
And soon, I’ll hold my crown.”
To be continued in Episode 5: Labour Without Love
