On our second wedding anniversary, when my husband asked what I wanted, I answered flatly; “I want a baby. A boy. Baby Raymond.” He teased me but then said, “Babies are on the way coming. Baby Raymond will come. Followed by Baby Rose. And then Baby whatever you want to name it.”

On our third anniversary, it was no longer a joke. Three years without a child got me worried. I asked him to follow me to see the doctor. Men and their inherent stubbornness, he declined. He relied on hope, God’s providence to give us a child.

I saw a doctor. They said I was fine. After several months of nagging him to death, he obliged to see the doctor. The fault was in his sperm. He had a low sperm count. He was put on drugs but he wouldn’t take the drugs. I cried in his ears; “You’re a man. You might have all the time in the universe. I’m a woman. Every tick of the clock draws me closer to a wilting flower. This is the time.”

On our fourth anniversary, there was still no sign of pregnancy. We changed the hospital, changed the drugs, went the traditional medicine route. I was in a hurry. I wanted to hold my baby in my arms. I was already thirty-five. Time was going.

Before our fifth anniversary, he fell sick. Serious Headache, blurry sight, numbness, forgetfulness. We spent more days in the hospital than in our house. A little tumour was found in his brain which we were assured can be resolved. As our marriage grew, the tumour also grew and became devastating. I stopped counting the years of our anniversary and instead prayed for healing.

On our sixth anniversary, he was in a hospital bed looking like a decorated ghost. He managed a smile and said, “Happy anniversary. We’ll go home soon and continue.”

Anytime we’ve been in the hospital, we went home later to sleep in the warmth of our bed. We held hands, we hugged while sleeping. I placed my head on his chest listening to the beating of his heart. We had sex often. He was sick but sex, according to him, numbed the pain.

I day after our sixth anniversary, I had a dream and couldn’t wait to tell him. In the dream, I had triplets. He looked at them and said, “I knew I could have all of them at once that’s why I waited.”

I was in a hurry to tell him about the dream but I was too late. He died a few minutes before I could reach the hospital. The tears and wailing didn’t do much. I’d lost a husband, a friend and a companion. Grieving came in the morning and lasted all day and night. He was buried a month later but I grieved as if he died yesterday.

One night, I started doing the maths. I’d forgotten the last time I had my menses. When memory failed me, I did a test. I was positive. I’d been pregnant and didn’t know.

I went to the hospital the following day to confirm. I couldn’t tell anybody. I kept the baby the way his father was kept in the grave. It showed before I explained to others. Some didn’t believe me but if you’ve lost what you love before, other people’s gossip doesn’t affect you.

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I had a baby boy in the same hospital my husband gave his last breath. The wards are not far from each other, where my husband died and where I delivered. There’s a thin line between life and death. Where one was lost, the other can sprout. I didn’t name him Baby Raymond. I called him Raymond. Others added ‘junior’ to his name.

Life is not all gloomy. When it’s all dark in my life, I remember why there’s “Ray” in my son’s name. Rays of the sun. The night becomes brighter so I  can find my way through the maze his death left me in.

— Rose

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