Ngua

I stare blankly as the pleasant Philippino nurse places my newborn son in my arms. “You’re all set to leave, his hearing test results were good.” I try to remember the nurse’s name. Amy or Janey, I forget. Afua is the Ghanian nurse, the one who prepped me for the C-Section, the one who looked at me with disdain when I said my husband was out of town and wouldn’t be by my side when the baby arrives, as if judging our priorities. Or maybe she could see through my lies, this fictitious husband I had made up who was unavoidably absent the day his son was born.

I pick up my phone and draft a text to Enam, but quickly delete it. Of what use would it be anyway. How could I get myself to tell him that what I thought was a one-night stand has resulted in this life-changing moment. I text Mimi instead. “We just got discharged, I’ll take an Uber home. Thanks for everything Cuz.”

I look at my Uber app. The driver will be here in 8 minutes. I’m hungry. I think of the Egusi in my freezer. I can’t wait to get home to some real food, after 3 days of eating protein bars and hospital meals as tasteless as my stepmom’s cooking. Last weekend Mimi graciously drove all the way from Kitchener to come cook for me and stock up my freezer. She arrived at my door at 7am, with bags of groceries. It’s the sort of thing Mimi would do unprompted, this selfless cousin of mine. “Mims when we say Toronto is expensive, we don’t mean tomatoes,” I said as I hugged her.

The day I told Mimi I was pregnant, she was ecstatic. I wished her excitement would rub off on me but 3 positive tests later and all I felt was hopeless emptiness, the same feeling I had the day my elder sister’s body was laid to rest. “Mimz, this guy probably doesn’t remember what happened that night.”