The next morning arrived quietly, with a pale light spreading gently across the village sky, but there was nothing gentle about the way my mother burst into my room.

The door creaked open, and my lights went on. I stirred groggily in bed, pulling my wrapper higher to shield myself from the reflection of the light and the soft chill of early morning.

Before my eyes could adjust to the light in my room, her voice came brisk and determined.

“Ifeoma, get up osiso!!!! Oge adịgokwa anyi!!! (Ifeoma get up quick, time is no longer on our side!)”........She said anxiously. I blinked up at her, confused and barely conscious.

“Mama ogini?....what’s going on? It’s still early now”........i said tiredly.

My mother was already fully dressed, her wrapper tied tightly above her waist, headscarf neatly knotted, and a small black leather handbag tucked under her arm.

I stared at her, baffled. I wondered if she even sleep at all. Her face was alive with purpose, as though this day had been long awaited.

Mama stood by the doorway, arms akimbo, her expression firm.

“We are going to the lab, Ifeoma. Get up now and get ready”........She said sternly.

I turned to glance at my wall clock. It was barely ten minutes past six.

“Mama, the lab won't even open until eight, It’s too early na”........I said groggily, pulling the wrapper closer. She shook her head stubbornly.

“Mba!!! Let them meet us there, it's better that way. We’ll be the first to be attended to. We still have to return in time for church service”........She retorted.

Her tone brooked no argument. Sighing, I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

My limbs were heavy with resistance, but there was no winning against my mother, when she had made up her mind.

Reluctantly, I rose from the bed, grabbed my towel, and sluggishly headed toward the bathroom.

The cold water slapped my skin awake, chasing away the remnants of sleep, and as I stood under the shower, my thoughts drifted again to what this day might reveal.

By the time I was dressed in a simple gown and sandals, my mother was already waiting by the front gate like a soldier on duty.

We began the twenty-minute walk to the village lab, the road still quiet except for a few early risers sweeping their compounds or fetching water.

Birds chirped in the distant trees, and the faint smell of wood smoke floated in the air.

As we neared the lab building which was a small, painted structure with a worn-out signboard reading “God Is Able Diagnostic Centre” I noticed the place was still locked.

My mother sighed impatiently but found a nearby bench, and we both sat, watching the road for any sign of movement.

After about fifteen minutes later, a young man on a motorcycle arrived, unlocking the doors with a quick greeting.

He looked barely thirty, with kind eyes and sleepy energy. He seemed surprised to see us already waiting.

“Good morning, ma”........he said respectfully to my mother.

“Good morning, my son. We’ve come for a pregnancy test”.......she said matter-of-factly.

He ushered us in politely. The interior was small but neat with white tiles, a glass counter, and a few plastic chairs arranged in a corner.

He disappeared briefly behind a curtain, then returned with a pair of gloves, a small sealed syringe, alcohol swabs, and a labeled vial.

“Madam, please sit here”.......he said to me, pointing to a chair beside the counter.

I hesitated for a second before obeying. As I rolled up the sleeve of my gown, my mother stood by, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes studying my every expression.

The technician tied a tourniquet around my upper arm and tapped a vein gently, then cleaned the area with an alcohol swab.

I turned my head away as the sharp pinch of the needle slid into my skin. Blood flowed steadily into the vial, and though I had done this before, today felt different and heavier somehow.

He filled the tube, removed the needle, and placed a small bandage on the punctured spot.

“You can go and sit. I’ll run the test now”.......he said with a polite nod.

I returned to the plastic chairs where my mother was already seated, her fingers anxiously drumming against her handbag.

The silence between us stretched thin as I tried to calm the wild rhythm of my heartbeat. My palms were damp, my throat dry.

It felt like my entire future sat in that little tube of blood. My mother leaned toward me.

“You see, God is about to do something great for you, Ifeoma. I feel it”.......She whispered.

I nodded slowly but said nothing. I was too deep in my thoughts, too unsure of what to hope for. Ten minutes. That was all it would take, the technician had said. But it felt like an eternity.

Now, all that remained was the result, and whatever would come after it.

The minutes that followed after my blood was drawn felt like sitting on a ticking clock with no hands, just silence and mounting pressure.

I shifted restlessly on the plastic chair, clasping and unclasping my hands on my lap. My mother sat beside me, her back straight as a broomstick, whispering quiet prayers under her breath.

Occasionally, she would glance in the direction of the inner room where the lab technician had disappeared to, as though willing him to hurry up with divine speed.

Despite the calmness on her face, her right foot tapped against the tiled floor in subtle, anxious rhythm.

Finally, after nearly thirty minutes, the lab technician emerged from behind the curtain. His hands held a sealed brown envelope.

My heart skipped a beat as he walked towards me and handed it over with a polite nod.

“You can check the results now”.......he said quietly before walking away.

With slightly trembling hands, I opened the envelope. I reached inside and unfolded the paper quickly, my eyes immediately scanning for what mattered most.

And then I saw NEGATIVE bold and centered across the result slip. My brows furrowed in disbelief. For a second, I stared, trying to process the clarity of that one word.

My mother leaned closer, her eyes searching mine. She didn’t even attempt to read the paper, because she couldn't read.

“Ifeoma, what did they write? Tell me”.......She asked in our dialect. I swallowed gently.

“Mama, the result says I’m not pregnant”.......i replied.

“Tufia!!! Mba nu!!! Ọ dịghị nke ahụ, You are no pregnant kwa?”........she shouted, springing to her feet.
(Never, that can’t be, you are not pregnant?)

Her voice rose with disbelief as she shook her head vigorously.

A few passersby paused to glance in our direction through the open door. I quickly shushed her, embarrassed by the attention.

“Mama, calm down. That’s what the test says”.......I said softly, pulling at her arm to sit.

But she remained standing, her hands on her waist, shaking her head with the kind of certainty only mothers possess.

“I don’t accept this oh. I know you are pregnant. My spirit tells me. Your eyes, your breasts, the way your body has changed, everything tells me you are with child”.......She said sternly.

I was torn between frustration and amusement. I tucked the result paper back into the envelope and slid it into my handbag.

Deep down, a small part of me had begun to wonder too. If I truly wasn’t pregnant, why was I showing so many of the signs; nausea, fatigue, tenderness, and that peculiar feeling in my lower belly? But for now, at least, science had spoken.

After paying the technician, we stepped outside into the soft morning breeze. Churchgoers were already beginning to gather on the main road, dressed in their Sunday best.

My mother and I began walking in that direction. I was just about to shift the conversation when she suddenly stopped walking and turned to me, eyes bright with a sudden spark of inspiration.

“Let’s go to the hospital”.......she said. I looked at her, confused.

“What for again, Mama?”.........i asked.

“That place that shows the baby, the one that brings the baby’s picture on television screen”.........she said, gesturing with her hands as if drawing something on her belly.

I frowned for a second before realization hit me. I let out a small laugh.

“You mean scan?”.......i asked amidst laughter. She nodded eagerly.

“Yes. Let them check inside your womb. These people that draw blood, what do they know? Let’s go and see it with our own eyes”.......She muttered.

Honestly, the idea sounded sensible. Blood tests could fail, but a scan was more precise.

And the way my mother clung to her conviction, it was hard not to wonder.

“Okay, let’s go”........i said, with a shrug.

We turned back and walked a little way to the local park where commercial drivers waited with their cars half-filled.

After some haggling, we got a seat in one of the taxis heading to town. Our village didn’t have a diagnostic centre with an ultrasound machine, so going to town was the only option.

As we sat in the back seat of the cab, the silence between us was different, curious, hopeful, and a little heavy.

I rested my head against the window as the car moved, wondering if this next stop would finally answer the question we both carried so heavily in our hearts.

To be continued........

Written ✍️ by Authoress Martha Osahon.