IT HURTS ME: A LOVE THAT SHOULD NEVER EXIST

I was sitting beside Omolola, listening patiently to her story, when my mother suddenly looked outside… then back at me.

“Ayo… you’re still awake?” she asked.

I froze. Her gaze always carried a weight that made me feel small, yet safe.

“Oya, go and bring water for me from the drum. I’m thirsty.”

I jumped to my feet, racing to fetch the water. My hands trembled slightly; I didn’t know why. When I returned, she instructed me to give it to Omolola, her voice gentle but commanding.

Then she turned to my father. “I want to go and make dinner,” she said. “Omolola, rest. Don’t worry, I’ll bring your food when it’s ready.”

“Please, ma… I can help you,” Omolola said softly, her voice weaker than usual, yet determined.

“No. You’re a visitor. You need rest. Don’t worry… I’ll even massage your body before you sleep,” my mother insisted.

I nodded silently, my curiosity growing. Omolola smiled at me.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Ayo,” I replied, my voice barely audible.

“You’re a smart and handsome boy,” she said. Her compliment made my cheeks flush.

“Thank you, ma,” I mumbled, looking down for a moment.

Then, curiosity got the better of me. “Is your husband married? Is that why his wife wanted to harm you?”

Omolola’s eyes widened in surprise. Then, she smiled softly, almost sadly.

“So you were listening?”

I nodded, feeling a strange mix of fear and admiration.

“You’re very smart,” she said again, her tone gentler now. “Wait for your parents to come back… so we can all continue together.”

“Okay, ma,” I said, though my mind raced with questions.

I excused myself to help my parents outside. The smell of amala and fried yam filled the air. My mother was already turning the amala, her movements swift and practiced, while my father arranged the plates.

I ran to fetch the igbako, just as she had asked. Not long after, the food was ready. We all sat down, but the calm atmosphere was suddenly pierced by Omolola clutching her stomach.

My mother’s eyes sharpened. “I think it’s time…”

She turned to my father. “Please, go and call Iya Abiye for me!”

Without hesitation, my father dashed out, returning moments later with the traditional birth attendant. My mother stayed inside, guiding Omolola through every instruction, her voice calm but urgent.

From outside, my heart pounded. Every instruction, every cry, every groan from inside made the air feel thick, almost suffocating.

“Push!” my mother commanded.

“Again!” Iya Abiye urged.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching endlessly. Thirty minutes passed, but it felt like an eternity. Then, a sound cut through the tension—a loud, sharp cry.

My heart leapt into my throat. I looked at my father, his face pale but relieved.

A second cry followed. Relief washed over us like a tidal wave.

My mother emerged, a radiant smile on her face. “She has given birth…”

“To a baby boy.”

Joy exploded in our small courtyard. My father’s smile mirrored my own. I felt a thrill of pure happiness, a moment of peace in a world that had felt uncertain for so long.

Then, almost immediately, the scene shifted.

“Iya Ayo! Iya Ayo!” the birth attendant called from inside.

My mother’s smile faltered. She rushed back inside, leaving us outside in tense anticipation. My heart thudded against my chest. Something about her sudden change in expression told me that this was not the end of the story.

Minutes later, my mother emerged, her face pale, eyes wide. She held a folded piece of cloth in her hand.

“It’s not just a baby…” she said, voice trembling.

I felt a chill run down my spine. My father stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.

“What is it?” he asked cautiously.

My mother shook her head. “You need to see this for yourself,” she whispered.

Inside, I could hear Omolola’s soft, uneven breathing. I hesitated, then stepped closer. My mother handed me the cloth. I unfolded it carefully.

Inside was a tiny, worn envelope. My name was scrawled across it in hurried, shaky handwriting.

I opened it, hands shaking. Inside were papers—evidence of something I had never imagined. A secret arrangement, a hidden truth about Omolola’s life and her connection to people I thought I knew well.

My heart pounded. The story she had whispered earlier was only the beginning. There were layers, secrets intertwined with love, betrayal, and danger.

I looked at Omolola. Her eyes met mine, filled with a mixture of relief and fear.

“They wanted to keep it hidden,” she said softly. “I didn’t know who to trust… until now.”

I felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. The baby boy in her arms, the truth in the envelope, the tension still lingering in the room—it was all connected. Something had to be done, but what?

Outside, the wind rustled the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The night felt alive, almost conspiratorial.

I glanced at my parents. They, too, understood—this was bigger than a simple birth. It was a story of survival, secrets, and choices that could change lives forever.

And as I held the envelope, I knew one thing: nothing in this village, nothing in this house, would ever be the same again.

The baby’s cries echoed softly, a reminder that life, no matter how complicated, always moves forward. But the secrets we uncovered tonight? They would not stay hidden for long.

Some stories, I realized, are meant to be heard—and shared.

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